LAOS  VENERIS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


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LAUS  VENERIS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  LARK  CLASSICS 


LAUS  VENERIS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


Doxey’s 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LARK 


NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  • JOHN  WILSON 
AND  SON  • CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


Contents 


^ >5  tU"  ^ ^ 

* ^ 


Page 

INTRODUCTION vii 

'Laus  Veneris 3 

A Forsaken  Garden 30 

A Ballad  of  Dreamland 36 

A Ballad  of  Burdens  ...» 38 

Madonna  Mia 43 

By  the  North  Sea 49 

Rondel 57 

An  Interlude 59 

Anima  Anceps 63 

April 66 

Hope  and  Fear 70 

Hertha 71 

A Leave-Taking 85 

Rondel 88 


V 


Contents 


Page 

Children 89 

A Child’s  Laughter  . . . 91 

Cradle  Songs  93 

Herse 100 

A Child’s  Sleep 105 

Hymn  to  Proserpine 107 

Sapphics 119 

Itylus 125 

A Match 129 

Les  Noyades • 132 

Rococo 138 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine 143 


Introduction 


TN  a vokime  such  as  this,  which,  with  the  exception  of 
^ the  masterly  Laus  Veneris,”  consists  mainly  of  selec- 
tions from  Mr.  Swinburne’s  lyrical  verse,  it  is  impossible  to 
gather  all  the  choice  flowers  from  that  author’s  large  and 
multi-coloured  bouquet  of  poetry ; neither  is  it  possible  to 
do  him  full  justice  by  including  between  its  covers  speci- 
mens of  what  in  reality  constitutes  his  most  powerful  work. 
The  size  of  the  book  itself  makes  the  former  difficult  of 
accomplishment;  the  omission  of  almost  all  matter  other 
than  lyrical  restrains  the  sickle  from  that  veritable  harvest 
of  niasterpieces  — his  tragedies. 

The  seledlions,  however,  being  of  a distin6l  kind,  as 
charming  for  their  metrical  accuracy  as  on  account  of  the 
tenderness  and  passion  they  often  portray,  will  certainly 
appeal  to  a large  class  of  people,  and  should  help  to  make 
better  known  in  this  country  a writer  whose  popularity  is 
by  no  means  equal  to  his  reputation  in  his  own. 

vii 


Introdudion 


It  may  take  a poet  twenty  volumes  wherein  to  give 
tongue  to  those  fleeting  emotions,  joyous  or  painful,  which 
go  to  make  up  his  life  and  the  expression  of  which  in  words 
constitutes  his  work,  but  in  each  of  those  twenty  volumes 
will  be  found  two  or  three  pieces  containing  within  them- 
selves the  concentrated  emotions  of  all  the  rest.  They  are 
often  the  clues  — to  which  the  other  poems  are  secondary 
and  about  which  they  are  merely  grouped  — to  each  suc- 
ceeding phase  of  the  writer’s  personality ; and  the  verses 
here  garnered,  which  are  undoubtedly  as  charafteristic  as 
any  that  could  have  been  selected,  will  serve  well  to  illus- 
trate the  point. 

Although  he  has  written  much  that  is  undoubtedly  very 
fine,  although  his  vocabulary  is  unlimited  and  his  style  dis- 
tinctive enough  to  place  him  above  all  his  contemporaries, 
and  although  he  has  written  more  than  one  poem  intensely 
patriotic  in  sentiment,  Mr.  Swinburne  is  by  no  means  a 
public  idol  in  England.  His  writings,  in  the  main,  are  not 
indicative  of  balance,  and  he  has  succeeded  in  antagonizing 
the  classes  without  securing  to  himself  the  approval  or 

viii 


Introdudion 


even  the  friendship  of  the  masses.  This  inability  to  charm 
the  great  reading  public  of  England  is  not  difficult  of  com- 
prehension. To  begin  with,  he  has  not  the  excessive  Brit- 
ishness, the  extreme  love  of  his  own  country,  the  absolute 
belief  in  its  present  and  its  future,  all  coupled  with  an 
inherent  and  unswerving  reliance  in  an  Established  Church, 
that  nurtured  the  well-regulated  muse  of  Tennyson.  He  is 
not  conspicuous  by  any  such  unquestioning  faith  in  God 
and  impregnable  assurance  of  the  progress  of  the  human 
race,  or  by  any  wonderful  sympathy  with  men  and  women, 
with  their  joys  and  with  their  sorrows,  such  as  draws  thou- 
sands to  Robert  Browning  in  spite  of  his  often  laboured 
utterance.  It  is  to  men  of  the  last  two  types  that  the  major- 
ity of  poetry  lovers  will  ever  go  for  instrudlion  or  for  con- 
solation ; for  a poet,  to  be  truly  great,  must  either  be  able 
to  illumine  the  darkness  that  ever  surrounds  us  and  sing  us 
into  reconciliation  with  our  lot,  or  he  must  be  capable  of 
pointing  out  how  present  conditions  may  be  bettered  and 
quickening  the  pulses  of  the  faint  by  foretelling  them  of  the 
Golden  Age. 


IX 


Introdudion 


Judging  him  by  his  work,  Mr.  Swinburne  can  do  neither 
of  these  things.  With  a tendency  towards  iconoclasm, 
born  of  a consciousness  that  there  is  something  wrong  with 
man^s  administration  in  the  world,  he  has,  nevertheless,  no 
dodrines  to  expound,  no  suggestions  to  make  for  the  bet- 
terment of  things,  no  spiritual  message  for  the  consoling 
of  a struggle-wearied  race.  He  is  neither  a prophet  nor  a 
priest,  but  a dispassionate  writer  of  terrific  tragedies,  a 
singer  of  sensuous-sounding  song.  One  hears  the  music  of 
his  lines  and  is  enraptured  by  it,  but  not  benefited;  the 
heart  is  made  glad  by  his  singing,  but  one^s  spirit  is  never 
soothed.  His  mastery  of  words  is  magnificent  and  the 
melody  of  his  lines  is  beyond  the  art  of  any  other  English 
verse  writer,  either  of  the  past  or  the  present ; but  it  is 
only  in  expression  that  he  excels  — in  thought  he  must 
still  be  classed  among  the  minor  poets. 

How  much  he  owes  to  Hugo,  how  much  to  Beaudelaire 
and  the  early  French  romanticists  is  not  easy  to  determine ; 
that  he  has  been  influenced  by  them,  and  to  no  small 
extent,  is  apparent  to  every  one  who  has  studied  the  work 


X 


Introduftion 


of  those  writers.  Were  he  a younger  man  he  might  be 
classed  among  the  decadents ; as  it  is,  much  of  his  poetry 
is  distinguishable  by  its  subdued  banalite,  by  a lack  of  that 
splendid  healthiness  and  vigour  everywhere  apparent  in  the 
work  of  Tennyson,  and  more  especially  in  that  of  the 
great-souled  Browning.  To  sum  up,  he  is  more  entertain- 
ing than  instru6live,  more  Pagan  in  thought  than  Christian, 
more  Latin  in  temperament  than  Anglo-Saxon ; and  to  this 
last  fadl,  almost  as  much  as  to  the  faults  just  enumerated, 
is  undoubtedly  due  his  lack  of  popularity  in  England. 

There  are  many  reasons,  however,  why  Mr.  Swinburne 
should  be  well  received  in  this  country.  He  is  no  truckler 
to  a doomed  and  passing  aristocracy,  no  sceptre-swayed 
poet  who  sings  to  order  and  whose  sacred  art  is  enlisted  in 
an  attempt  to  add  new  lustre  to  the  tarnished  crowns  of 
kings.  He  is  the  enemy  of  all  sham,  and  were  his  surround- 
ings other  than  what  they  are,  there  is  no  saying  but  what 
he  might  sing  forcefully  in  the  cause  of  the  higher  repub- 
licanism. In  spite  of  his  lack  of  purpose,  he  is  the  leading 
poet  of  to-day  and,  with  the  exception  of  him  whose  eerie 


XI 


Introdudion 


is  among  the  tawny  hills  that  overlook  the  dreamy  Pacific, 
he  is  the  last  of  the  circle  of  greater  bards.  And  when 
he  becomes  one  of  those  whose  little  hour  hath  been,  whose 
uncomplaining  dust  lies  peacefully  in  the  bosom  of  the 
great  Mother,  and  the  memory  of  whom  is  sweet  only  to  a 
chosen  few,  then,  and  not  till  then,  will  the  world  appre- 
ciate the  singer  whose  hence-taking  shall  leave  it  mute. 

Howard  V.  Sutherland. 

New  York,  1900. 


xii 


LAUS  VENERIS 


•( 


Laus  Veneris 


Asleep  or  waking  is  it?  for  her  neck, 

Kissed  over  close,  wears  yet  a purple  speck  ' 
Wherein  the  pained  blood  falters  and  goes  out ; 
Soft,  and  stung  softly  — fairer  for  a fleck. 

But  though  my  lips  shut  sucking  on  the  place. 

There  is  no  vein  at  work  upon  the  face ; 

Her  eyelids  are  so  peaceable,  no  doubt 
Deep  sleep  has  warmed  her  blood  through  all  its  ways. 

Lo,  this  is  she  that  was  the  world’s  delight ; 

The  old  gray  years  were  parcels  of  her  might ; 

The  strewing  of  the  ways  wherein  she  trod 
Were  the  twain  seasons  of  the  day  and  night. 


3 


Laus  Veneris 


Lo,  she  was  thus  when  her  clear  limbs  enticed 
All  lips  that  now  grow  sad  with  kissing  Christ, 
Stained  with  blood  fallen  from  the  feet  of  God, 
The  feet  and  hands  whereat  our  souls  were  priced. 

Alas,  Lord,  surely  thou  art  great  and  fair. 

But  lo  her  wonderfully  woven  hair ! 

And  thou  didst  heal  us  with  thy  piteous  kiss ; 
But  see  now,  Lord ; her  mouth  is  lovelier. 

She  is  right  fair;  what  hath  she  done  to  thee  ? 
Nay,  fair  Lord  Christ,  lift  up  thine  eyes  and  see; 

Had  now  thy  mother  such  a lip  — like  this  ? 
Thou  knowest  how  sweet  a thing  it  is  to  me. 

Inside  the  Horsel  here  the  air  is  hot; 

Right  little  peace  one  hath  for  it,  God  wot ; 

The  scented  dusty  daylight  burns  the  air, 

And  my  heart  chokes  me  till  I hear  it  not. 


4 


Laus  Veneris 


Behold,  my  Venus,  my  souFs  body,  lies 
With  my  love  laid  upon  her  garment-wise. 

Feeling  my  love  in  all  her  limbs  and  hair, 

And  shed  between  her  eyelids  through  her  eyes. 

She  holds  my  heart  in  her  sweet  open  hands 
Hanging  asleep  ; hard  by  her  head  there  stands, 
Crowned  with  gilt  thorns  and  clothed  with  flesh 
like  fire, 

Love,  wan  as  foam  blown  up  the  salt  burnt  sands  — 

Hot  as  the  brackish  waifs  of  yellow  spume 
That  shift  and  steam — loose  clots  of  arid  fume 
From  the  sea's  panting  mouth  of  dry  desire; 

There  stands  he,  like  one  labouring  at  a loom. 

The  warp  holds  fast  across ; and  every  thread 
That  makes  the  woof  up  has  dry  specks  of  red ; 

Always  the  shuttle  cleaves  clean  through,  and  he 
Weaves  with  the  hair  of  many  a ruined  head. 

5 


Laus  Veneris 


Love  is  not  glad  nor  sorry,  as  I deem ; 

Labouring  he  dreams,  and  labours  in  the  dream. 
Till  when  the  spool  is  finished,  lo  I see 
His  web,  reeled  off,  curls  and  goes  out  like  steam. 

Night  falls  like  fire  ; the  heavy  lights  run  low. 

And  as  they  drop,, my  blood  and  body  so 

Shake  as  the  flame  shakes,  full  of  days  and  hours 
That  sleep  not,  neither  weep  they  as  they  go. 

Ah  yet  would  God  this  flesh  of  mine  might  be 
Where  air  might  wash  and  long  leaves  cover  me; 

Where  tides  of  grass  break  into  foam  of  flowers. 
Or  where  the  wind’s  feet  shine  along  the  sea. 

Ah  yet  would  God  that  stems  and  roots  were  bred 
Out  of  my  weary  body  and  my  head ; 

That  sleep  were  sealed  upon  me  with  a seal, 

And  I were  as  the  least  of  all  his  dead. 


6 


Laus  Veneris 


Would  God  my  blood  were  dew  to  feed  the  grass, 
Mine  ears  made  deaf  and  mine  eyes  blind  as  glass, 
My  body  broken  as  a turning  wheel, 

And  my  mouth  stricken  ere  it  saith  Alas ! 

Ah  God,  that  love  were  as  a flower  or  flame, 

That  life  were  as  the  naming  of  a name, 

That  death  were  not  more  pitiful  than  desire. 
That  these  things  were  not  one  thing  and  the  same 

Behold  now,  surely  somewhere  there  is  death ; 

For  each  man  hath  some  space  of  years,  he  saith, 

A little  space  of  time  ere  time  expire, 

A littfe  day,  a little  way  of  breath. 

And  lo,  between  the  sundawn  and  the  sun. 

His  day’s  work  and  his  night’s  work  are  undone; 

And  lo,  between  the  nightfall  and  the  night. 

He  is  not,  and  none  knoweth  of  such  an  one. 


7 


Laus  Veneris 


Ah  God,  that  I were  as  all  souls  that  be, 

As  any  herb  or  leaf  of  any  tree. 

As  men  that  toil  through  hours  of  labouring  light. 
As  bones  of  men  under  the  deep  sharp  sea. 

Outside  it  must  be  winter  among  men ; 

For  at  the  gold  bars  of  the  gates  again 
I heard  all  night  and  all  the  hours  of  it 
The  wind’s  wet  wings  and  fingers  drip  with  rain, 

Knights  gather,  riding  sharp  for  cold;  I know 
The  ways  and  woods  are  strangled  with  the  snow; 

And  with  short  song  the  maidens  spin  and  sit 
Until  Christ’s  coming,  lily-like,  arow. 

The  scent  and  shadow  shed  about  me  make 
The  very  soul  in  all  my  senses  ache ; 

The  hot  hard  night  is  fed  upon  my  breath. 

And  sleep  beholds  me  from  far  awake. 

8 


Laus  Veneris 


Alas,  but  surely  where  the  hills  grow  deep, 

Or  where  the  wild  ways  of  the  sea  are  steep, 

Or  in  strange  places  somewhere  there  is  death. 
And  on  death’s  face  the  scatter’d  hair  of  sleep. 

There  lover-like  with  lips  and  limbs  that  meet 
They  lie,  they  pluck  sweet  fruit  of  life  and  eat ; ' 
But  me  the  hot  and  hungry  days  devour. 

And  in  my  mouth  no  fruit  of  theirs  is  sweet. 

No  fruit  of  theirs,  but  fruit  of  my  desire. 

For  her  love’s  sake  whose  lips  through  mine  respire, 
Her  eyelids  on  her  eyes  like  flower  on  flower, 
Mine  eyelids  on  mine  eyes  like  fire  on  fire. 

So  lie  we,  not  as  sleep  that  lies  by  death. 

With  heavy  kisses  and  with  happy  breath ; 

Not  as  man  lies  by  woman,  when  the  bride 
Laughs  low  for  love’s  sake  and  the  words  he  saith. 


9 


Laus  Veneris 


For  she  lies,  laughing  low  with  love;  she  lies, 

And  turns  his  kisses  on  her  lips  to  sighs, 

To  sighing  sound  of  lips  unsatisfied, 

And  the  sweet  tears  are  tender  with  her  eyes. 

Ah,  not  as  they,  but  as  the  souls  that  were 
Slain  in  the  old  time,  having  found  her  fair; 

Who,  sleeping  with  her  lips  upon  their  eyes, 
Fleard  sudden  serpents  hiss  across  her  hair. 

Their  blood  runs  round  the  roots  of  time  like  rain 
She  casts  them  forth  and  gathers  them  again  ; 

With  nerve  and  bone  she  weaves  and  multiplies 
Exceeding  pleasure  out  of  extreme  pain. 

Her  little  chambers  drip  with  flower-like  red. 

Her  girdles,  and  the  chaplets  of  her  head. 

Her  armlets  and  her  anklets  ; with  her  feet 
She  tramples  all  that  wine-press  of  the  dead. 

lO 


Laus  Veneris 


Her  gateways  smoke  with  fume  of  flowers  and  fires, 
With  loves  burnt  out  and  unassuaged  desires; 

Between  her  lips  the  steam  of  them  is  sweet, 

The  languor  in  her  ears  of  many  lyres. 

Her  beds  are  full  of  perfume  and  sad  sound. 

Her  doors  are  made  with  music,  and  barred  round 
With  sighing  and  with  laughter  and  with  tears, — 
With  tears  whereby  strong  souls  of  men  are  bound. 

There  is  the  knight  Adonis  that  was  slain  ; 

With  flesh  and  blood  she  chains  him  for  a chain ; 

The  body  and  the  spirit  in  her  ears 
Cry,  for  her  lips  divide  him  vein  by  vein. 

Yea,  all  she  slayeth;  yea,  every  man  save  me; 

Me,  love,  thy  lover  that  must  cleave  to  thee 
Till  the  ending  of  the  days  and  ways  of  earth, 
The  shaking  of  the  sources  of  the  sea ; 


Laus  Veneris 


Me,  most  forsaken  of  all  souls  that  fell ; 

Me,  satiated  with  things  insatiable; 

Me,  for  whose  sake  the  extreme  hell  makes  mirth. 
Yea,  laughter  kindles  at  the  heart  of  hell. 

Alas  thy  beauty ! for  my  mouth’s  sweet  sake 
My  soul  is  bitter  to  me,  my  limbs  quake 
As  water,  as  the  flesh  of  men  that  weep. 

As  their  heart’s  vein  whose  heart  goes  nigh  to  break. 

Ah  God,  that  sleep  with  flower-sweet  finger-tips 
Would  crush  the  fruit  of  death  upon  my  lips ; 

Ah  God,  that  death  would  tread  the  grapes  of  sleep 
And  wring  their  juice  upon  me  as  it  slips. 

There  is  no  change  of  cheer  for  many  days, 

But  change  of  chimes  high  up  in  the  air,  that  sways 
Rung  by  the  running  fingers  of  the  wind; 

And  singing  sorrows  heard  on  hidden  ways. 


12 


Laus  Veneris 


Day  smiteth  clay  in  twain,  night  sundereth  night, 

And  on  mine  eyes  the  dark  sits  as  the  light; 

Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest  I know  not,  having  sinned. 
If  heaven  be  clean  or  unclean  in  thy  sight. 

Yea,  as  if  earth  were  sprinkled  over  me. 

Such  chafed  harsh  earth  as  chokes  a sandy  sea. 

Each  pore  doth  yearn,  and  the  dried  blood  thereof 
Gasps  by  sick  fits,  my  heart  swims  heavily. 

There  is  a feverish  famine  in  my  veins 
Below  her  bosom,  where  a crushed  grape  stains 

The  white  and  blue,  there  my  lips  caught  and  clove 
An  hour  since,  and  what  mark  of  me  remains? 

I dare  not  always  touch  her,  lest  the  kiss 
Leave  my  lips  charred.  Yea,  Lord,  a little  bliss, 

Brief  bitter  bliss,  one  hath  for  a great  sin  ; 

Nathless  thou  knowest  how  sweet  a thing  it  is. 


13 


Laus  Veneris 


Sin,  is  it  sin  whereby  men’s  souls  are  thrust 
Into  the  pit  ? yet  I had  a good  trust 

To  save  my  soul  before  it  slipped  therein, 

Trod  under  by  the  fire-shod  feet  of  lust. 

For  if  mine  eyes  fail  and  my  soul  takes  breath, 

I look  between  the  iron  sides  of  death 

Into  sad  hell  where  all  sweet  love  hath  end, 

All  but  the  pain  that  never  finisheth. 

There  are  the  naked  faces  of  great  kings. 

The  singing  folk  with  all  their  lute-playings ; 

There  when  one  cometh  he  shall  have  to  friend 
The  grave  that  covets  and  the  worm  that  clings. 

There  sit  the  knights  that  were  so  great  of  hand. 

The  ladies  that  were  queens  of  fair  green  land, 

Grown  gray  and  black  now,  brought  unto  the  dust, 
Soiled,  without  raiment,  clad  about  with  sand. 


14 


Laus  Veneris 


There  is  one  end  for  all  of  them ; they  sit 
Naked  and  sad,  they  drink  the  dregs  of  it, 

Trodden  as  grapes  in  the  wine-press  of  lust, 
Trampled  and  trodden  by  the  fiery  feet, 

I see  the  marvellous  mouth  whereby  there  fell 
Cities  and  people  whom  the  gods  loved  well. 

Yet  for  her  sake  on  them  the  fire  gat  hold, 

And  for  their  sakes  on  her  the  fire  of  hell. 

And  softer  than  the  Egyptian  lote-leaf  is 
The  queen  whose  face  was  worth  the  world  to  kiss. 
Wearing  at  breast  a suckling  snake  of  gold ; 

And  large  pale  lips  of  strong  Semiramis, 

Curled  like  a tiger's  that  curl  back  to  feed ; 

Red  only  where  the  last  kiss  made  them  bleed ; 

Her  hair  most  thick  with  many  a carven  gem, 
Deep  in  the  mane,  great-chested,  like  a steed. 

IS 


Laus  Veneris 


Yea,  with  red  sin  the  faces  of  them  shine; 

But  in  all  these  there  was  no  sin  like  mine ; 

No,  not  in  all  the  strange  great  sins  of  them 
That  made  the  wine-press  froth  and  foam  with  wine. 

For  I was  of  Christ’s  choosing,  I God’s  knight, 

No  blinkard  heathen  stumbling  for  scant  light ; 

I can  well  see,  for  all  the  dusty  days 
Gone  past,  the  clean  great  time  of  goodly  fight. 

I smell  the  breathing  battle  sharp  with  blows. 

With  shriek  of  shafts  and  snapping  short  of  bows ; 

The  fair  pure  sword  smites  out  in  subtle  ways. 
Sounds  and  long  lights  are  shed  between  the  rows 

Of  beautiful  mailed  men ; the  edged  light  slips, 

Most  like  a snake  that  takes  short  breath  and  dips 
Sharp  from  the  beautifully  bending  head. 

With  all  its  gracious  body  lithe  as  lips 

i6 


Laus  Veneris 


That  curl  in  touching  you;  right  in  this  wise 
My  sword  doth,  seeming  fire  in  mine  own  eyes, 
Leaving  all  colours  in  them  brown  and  red 
And  flecked  with  death ; then  the  keen  breaths  like 
sighs. 

The  caught-up  choked  dry  laughters  following  them. 
When  all  the  fighting  face  is  grown  a-flame 

For  pleasure,  and  the  pulse  that  stuns  the  ears. 
And  the  heart’s  gladness  of  the  goodly  game. 

Let  me  think  yet  a little ; I do  know 
These  things  were  sweet,  but  sweet  such  years  ago. 
Their  savour  is  all  turned  now  into  tears ; 

Yea,  ten  years  since,  where  the  blue  ripples  blow. 

The  blue  curled  eddies  of  the  blowing  Rhine, 

I felt  the  sharp  wind  shaking  grass  and  vine 
Touch  my  blood  too,  and  sting  me  with  delight 
Through  all  this  waste  and  weary  body  of  mine 
2 17 


Laus  Veneris 


That  never  feels  clear  air ; right  gladly  then 
I rode  alone,  a great  way  off  my  men, 

And  heard  the  chiming  bridle  smite  and  smite, 
And  gave  each  rhyme  thereof  some  rhyme  again, 

Till  my  song  shifted  to  that  iron  one ; 

Seeing  there  rode  up  between  me  and  the  sun 
Some  certain  of  my  foe’s  men,  for  his  three 
White  wolves  across  their  painted  coats  did  run. 

The  first  red-bearded,  with  square  cheeks  — alack, 
I made  my  knave’s  blood  turn  his  beard  to  black ; 

The  slaying  of  him  was  a joy  to  see : 

Perchance  too,  when  at  night  he  came  not  back. 

Some  woman  fell  a-weeping,  whom  this  thief 
Would  beat  when  he  had  drunken  ; yet  small  grief 
Hath  any  for  the  ridding  of  such  knaves ; 

Yea,  if  one  wept,  I doubt  her  teen  was  brief. 

i8 


Laus  Veneris 


This  bitter  love  is  sorrow  in  all  lands, 

Draining  of  eyelids,  wringing  of  drenched  hands, 
Sighing  of  hearts  and  filling  up  of  graves ; 

A sign  across  the  head  of  the  world  he  stands. 

As  one  that  hath  a plague-mark  on  his  brows ; 

Dust  and  spilt  blood  do  track  him  to  his  house 
Down  under  earth ; sweet  smells  of  lip  and  cheek, 
Like  a sweet  snake’s  breath  made  more  poisonous 

With  chewing  of  some  perfumed  deadly  grass, 

Are  shed  all  round  his  passage  if  he  pass, 

And  their  quenched  savour  leaves  the  whole  soul 
weak, 

Sick  with  keen  guessing  whence  the  perfume  was. 

As  one  who  hidden  in  deep  sedge  and  reeds 
Smells  the  rare  scent  made  where  a panther  feeds, 
And  tracking  ever  slotwise  the  warm  smell, 

Is  snapped  upon  by  the  sweet  mouth  and  bleeds, 

^9 


Laus  Veneris 


His  head  far  down  the  hot  sweet  throat  of  her  — 

So  one  tracks  love,  whose  breath  is  deadlier, 

And  lo,  one  springe  and  you  are  fast  in  hell, 

Fast  as  the  gin's  grip  of  a wayfarer. 

I think  now,  as  the  heavy  hours  decease 
One  after  one,  and  bitter  thoughts  increase 
One  upon  one,  of  all  sweet  finished  things ; 

The  breaking  of  the  battle;  the  long  peace 

Wherein  we  sat  clothed  softly,  each  man's  hair 
Crowned  with  green  leaves  beneath  white  hoods  of 
vair ; 

The  sound  of  sharp  spears  at  great  tourneyings. 
And  noise  of  singing  in  the  late  sweet  air, 

I sang  of  love  too,  knowing  naught  thereof ; 

‘‘  Sweeter,"  I said,  ‘‘  the  little  laugh  of  love 
Than  tears  out  of  the  eyes  of  Magdalen, 

Or  any  fallen  feather  of  the  Dove. 


20 


Laus  Veneris 


The  broken  little  laugh  that  spoils  a kiss, 

The  ache  of  purple  pulses,  and  the  bliss 
Of  blinded  eyelids  that  expand  again  — 

Love  draws  them  open  with  those  lips  of  his,  — 

Lips  that  cling  hard  till  the  kissed  face  has  grown 
Of  one  same  fire  and  colour  with  their  own  ; 

There  ere  one  sleep,  appeased  with  sacrifice, 
Where  his  lips  wounded,  there  his  lips  atone.” 

I sang  these  things  long  since  and  knew  them  not; 
Lo,  here  is  love,  or  there  is  love,  God  wot. 

This  man  and  that  finds  favour  in  his  eyes.” 

I said,  ‘‘  but  I,  what  guerdon  have  I got } 

“ The  dust  of  praise  that  is  blown  everywhere 
In  all  men’s  faces  with  the  common  air; 

The  bay-leaf  that  wants  chafing  to  be  sweet 
Before  they  wind  it  in  a singer’s  hair.” 


21 


Laus  Veneris 


So  that  one  dawn  I rode  forth  sorrowing ; 

I had  no  hope  but  of  some  evil  thing, 

And  so  rode  slowly  past  the  windy  wheat, 

And  past  the  vineyard  and  the  water-spring, 

Up  to  the  Horsel.  A great  elder-tree 
Held  back  its  heaps  of  flowers  to  let  me  see 
The  ripe  tall  grass,  and  one  that  walked  therein, 
Naked,  with  hair  shed  over  to  the  knee. 

She  walked  between  the  blossom  and  the  grass  ; 

I knew  the  beauty  of  her,  what  she  was. 

The  beauty  of  her  body  and  her  sin. 

And  in  my  flesh  the  sin  of  hers,  alas  ! 

Alas  ! for  sorrow  is  all  the  end  of  this. 

O sad  kissed  mouth,  how  sorrowful  it  is ! 

O breast  whereat  some  suckling  sorrow  clings, 
Red  with  the  bitter  blossom  of  a kiss  ! 


22 


Laus  Veneris 


Ah,  with  blind  lips  I felt  for  you,  and  found 
About  my  neck  your  hands  and  hair  enwound, 
The  hands  that  stifle  and  the  hair  that  stings, 
I felt  them  fasten  sharply  without  sound. 

Yea,  for  my  sin  I had  great  store  of  bliss : 

Rise  up,  make  answer  for  me,  let  thy  kiss 
Seal  my  lips  hard  from  speaking  of  my  sin, 
Lest  one  go  mad  to  hear  how  sweet  it  is. 

Yet  I waxed  faint  with  fume  of  barren  bowers. 
And  murmuring  of  the  heavy  headed  hours; 

And  let  the  dove’s  beak  fret  and  peck  within 
My  lips  in  vain,  and  Love  shed  fruitless  flowers. 

So  that  God  looked  upon  me  when  your  hands 
Were  hot  about  me;  yea,  God  brake  my  bands 
To  save  my  soul  alive,  and  I came  forth 
Like  a man  blind  and  naked  in  strange  lands 


23 


Laus  Veneris 

That  hears  men  laugh  and  weep,  and  knows  not 
whence 

Nor  wherefore,  but  is  broken  in  his  sense; 

Howbeit  I met  folk  riding  from  the  north 
Toward  Rome,  to  purge  them  of  their  souls'  offence, 

And  rode  with  them,  and  spake  to  none;  the  day 
Stunned  me  like  lights  upon  some  wizard  way. 

And  ate  like  fire  mine  eyes  and  mine  eyesight ; 

So  rode  I,  hearing  all  these  chant  and  pray. 

And  marvelled  ; till  before  us  rose  and  fell 
White  cursed  hills,  like  outer  skirts  of  hell 

Seen  where  men's  eyes  look  through  the  day  to 
night. 

Like  a jagged  shell's  lips,  harsh,  untunable. 

Blown  in  between  by  devils'  wrangling  breath; 
Nathless  we  won  well  past  that  hell  and  death, 

Down  to  the  sweet  land  where  all  airs  are  good, 
Even  unto  Rome  where  God's  grace  tarrieth. 


24 


Laus  Veneris 


Then  came  each  man  and  worshipped  at  his  knees 
Who  in  the  Lord  God’s  likeness  bears  the  keys 

To  bind  or  loose,  and  called  on  Christ’s  shed  blood, 
And  so  the  sweet-souled  father  gave  him  ease. 

Bat  when  I came  I fell  down  at  his  feet. 

Saying,  ‘‘  Father,  though  the  Lord’s  blood  be  right 
sweet. 

The  spot  it  takes  not  off  the  panther’s  skin, 

Nor  shall  an  Ethiop’s  stain  be  bleached  with  it. 

“Lo,  I have  sinned  and  have  spat  out  at  God, 
Wherefore  his  hand  is  heavier  and  his  rod 
More  sharp  because  of  mine  exceeding  sin. 

And  all  his  raiment  redder  than  bright  blood 

“ Before  mine  eyes ; yea,  for  my  sake  I wot 
The  heat  of  hell  is  waxen  seven  times  hot 

Through  my  great  sin.”  Then  spake  he  some 
sweet  word. 

Giving  me  cheer;  which  thing  availed  me  not; 

25 


Laus  Veneris 


Yea,  scarce  I wist  if  such  indeed  were  said; 

For  when  I ceased  — lo,  as  one  newly  dead 
Who  hears  a great  cry  out  of  hell,  I heard 
The  crying  of  his  voice  across  my  head. 

“ Until  this  dry  shred  staff,  that  hath  no  whit 
Of  leaf  nor  bark,  bear  blossom  and  smell  sweet, 

Seek  thou  not  any  mercy  in  God’s  sight. 

For  so  long  shalt  thou  be  cast  out  from  it.” 

Yea,  what  if  dried-up  stems  wax  red  and  green, 

Shall  that  thing  be  which  is  not  nor  has  been? 

Yea)  what  if  sapless  bark  wax  green  and  white. 
Shall  any  good  fruit  grow  upon  my  sin  ? 

Nay,  though  sweet  fruit  were  plucked  of  a dry  tree. 
And  though  men  drew  sweet  waters  of  the  sea. 

There  should  not  grow  sweet  leaves  on  this  dead 
stem. 

This  waste  wan  body  and  shaken  soul  of  me. 

26 


Laus  Veneris 


Yea,  though  God  search  it  warily  enough, 

There  is  not  one  sound  thing  in  all  thereof ; 

Though  he  search  all  my  veins  through,  searching 
them 

He  shall  find  nothing  whole  therein  but  love. 

For  I came  home  right  heavy,  with  small  cheer. 

And  lo  my  love,  mine  own  soul's  heart,  more  dear 
Than  mine  own  soul,  more  beautiful  than  God, 
Who  hath  my  being  between  the  hands  of  her — 

Fair  still,  but  fair  for  no  man  saving  me. 

As  when  she  came  out  of  the  naked  sea 
Making  the  foam  as  fire  whereon  she  trod, 

And  as  the  inner  flower  of  fire  was  she. 

Yea,  she  laid  hold  upon  me,  and  her  mouth 
Clove  unto  mine  as  soul  to  body  doth. 

And,  laughing,  made  her  lips  luxurious ; 

Her  hair  had  smells  of  all  the  sunburnt  south, 

27 


Laus  Veneris 

Strange  spice  and  flower,  strange  savour  of  crushed 
fruit, 

And  perfume  the  swart  kings  tread  underfoot 
For  pleasure  when  their  minds  wax  amorous, 
Charred  frankincense  and  grated  sandal-root. 

And  I forgot  fear  and  all  weary  things. 

All  ended  prayers  and  perished  thanksgivings. 
Feeling  her  face  with  all  her  eager  hair 
Cleave  to  me,  clinging  as  a fire  that  clings 

To  the  body  and  to  the  raiment,  burning  them  ; 

As  after  death  I know  that  such-like  flame 
Shall  cleave  to  me  forever  ; yea,  what  care, 

Albeit  I burn  then,  having  felt  the  same  ? 

Ah,  love,  there  is  no  better  life  than  this ; 

To  have  known  love,  how  bitter  a thing  it  is. 

And  afterward  be  cast  out  of  God's  sight ; 

Yea,  these  that  know  not,  shall  they  have  such  bliss 

28 


Laus  Veneris 


High  up  in  barren  heaven  before  his  face 
As  we  twain  in  the  heavy-hearted  place, 
Remembering  love  and  all  the  dead  delight, 
And  all  that  time  was  sweet  with  for  a space  ? 

For  till  the  thunder  in  the  trumpet  be, 

Soul  may  divide  from  body,  but  not  we 

One  from  another ; I hold  thee  with  my  hand, 
I let  mine  eyes  have  all  their  will  of  thee, 

I seal  myself  upon  thee  with  my  might, 

Abiding  alway  out  of  all  men’s  sight 
Until  God  loosen  over  sea  and  land 
The  thunder  of  the  trumpets  of  the  night. 

EXPLICIT  LAUS  VENERIS 


29 


A Forsaken  Garden 


I N a coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland, 
^ At  the  sea-down’s  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 

The  ghost  of  a garden  fronts  the  sea. 

A girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 
The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves  of 
its  roses 

Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 

To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land. 

If  a step  should  sound  or  a word  be  spoken, 

Would  a ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest’s  hand  ? 

30 


A Forsaken  Garden 


So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 
Through  branches  and  briers  if  a man  make  way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 
That  crawls  by  a track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of  time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken ; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 

The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 
These  remain. 

Not  a flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that  falls  not ; 

As  the  heart  of  a dead  man  the  seed-plots  are  dry ; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale 
calls  not, 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a rose  to  reply. 

31 


A Forsaken  Garden 


Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 
Rings  but  the  note  of  a sea-bird’s  song; 

Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weeping, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know. 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  Look 
thither,*' 

Did  he  whisper  ? look  forth  from  the  flowers  to 
the  sea ; 


62 


A Forsaken  Garden 

For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose-blossoms 
wither, 

And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die  — but  we 

And  the  same  wind  sang  and  the  same  waves 
whitened, 

And  or  ever  the  garden's  past  petals  were  shed, 

In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had 
lightened. 

Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  life  through,  and  then  went 
whither  ? 

And  were  one  to  the  end;  but  what  end  who  knows  ? 

Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a rose  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 

Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love  them  ? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a grave  ? 

They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them 
Or  the  wave. 


3 


33 


A Forsaken  Garden 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 
In  the  air  now  soft  with  a summer  to  be. 

Not  a breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or  weep, 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and 
laughter 

We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever ; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise  up 
never. 

Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground  growing, 
While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be ; 

Till  a last  wind’s  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea, 

34 


A Forsaken  Garden 


Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 

Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 

Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides 
humble 

The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink, 

Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand 
spread, 

As  a god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 

Death  lies  dead. 


35 


A Ballad  of  Dreamland 


I HID  my  heart  in  a nest  of  roses, 

Out  of  the  sun's  way,  hidden  apart ; 

In  a softer  bed  than  the  soft  white  snow’s  is, 
Under  the  roses  I hid  my  heart. 

Why  would  it  sleep  not?  why  should  it  start, 
When  never  a leaf  of  the  rose-tree  stirred? 

What  made  sleep  flutter  his  wings  and  part  ? 
Only  the  song  of  a secret  bird. 

Lie  still,  I said,  for  the  wind’s  wing  closes. 

And  mild  leaves  muffle  the  keen  sun’s  dart ; 
Lie  still,  for  the  wind  on  the  warm  sea  dozes. 
And  the  wind  is  unquieter  yet  than  thou  art. 
36 


A Ballad  of  Dreamland 


Does  a thought  in  thee  still  as  a thorn’s  wound 
smart  ? 

Does  the  fang  still  fret  thee  of  hope  deferred  ? 

What  bids  the  lids  of  thy  sleep  dispart? 

Only  the  song  of  a secret  bird. 

The  green  land’s  name  that  a charm  encloses, 

It  never  was  writ  in  the  traveller’s  chart, 

And  sweet  on  its  trees  as  the  fruit  that  grows  is, 

It  never  was  sold  in  the  merchant’s  mart. 

The  swallows  of  dreams  through  its  dim  fields  dart, 
And  sleep’s  are  the  tunes  in  its  tree-tops  heard ; 

No  hound’s  note  wakens  the  wildwood  hart. 

Only  the  song  of  a secret  bird. 

In  the  world  of  dreams  I have  chosen  my  part, 

To  sleep  for  a season  and  hear  no  word 
Of  true  love’s  truth  or  of  light  love’s  art, 

Only  the  song  of  a secret  bird. 

37 


A Ballad  of  Burdens 


The  burden  of  fair  women.  Vain  delight, 

And  love  self-slain  in  some  sweet  shameful  way, 
And  sorrowful  old  age  that  comes  by  night 
As  a thief  comes  that  has  no  heart  by  day, 

And  change  that  finds  fair  cheeks  and  leaves  them 
gray. 

And  weariness  that  keeps  awake  for  hire. 

And  grief  that  says  what  pleasure  used  to  say ; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man’s  desire. 

The  burden  of  bought  kisses.  This  is  sore, 

A burden  without  fruit  in  childbearing ; 

Between  the  nightfall  and  the  dawn  threescore, 
Threescore  between  the  dawn  and  evening. 

38 


A Ballad  of  Burdens 


The  shuddering  in  thy  lips,  the  shuddering 
In  thy  sad  eyelids  tremulous  like  fire, 

Makes  love  seem  shameful  and  a wretched  thing : 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 


The  burden  of  sweet  speeches.  Nay,  kneel  down, 
Cover  thy  head,  and  weep ; for  verily 
These  market-men  that  buy  thy  white  and  brown 
In  the  last  days  shall  take  no  thought  for  thee. 

In  the  last  days  like  earth  thy  face  shall  be, 

Yea,  like  sea-marsh  made  thick  with  brine  and  mire, 
Sad  with  sick  leavings  of  the  sterile  sea : 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  long  living.  Thou  shalt  fear 
Waking,  and  sleeping  mourn  upon  thy  bed  ; 

And  say  at  night,  “ Would  God  the  day  were  here ! 
And  say  at  dawn,  “ Would  God  the  day  were  dead." 


39 


A Ballad  of  Burdens 


With  weary  days  thou  shalt  be  clothed  and  fed, 
And  wear  remorse  of  heart  for  thine  attire, 

Pain  for  thy  girdle  and  sorrow  upon  thine  head; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man’s  desire. 

The  burden  of  bright  colours.  Thou  shalt  see 
Gold  tarnished,  and  the  gray  above  the  green; 
And  as  the  thing  thou  seest  thy  face  shall  be. 

And  no  more  as  the  thing  beforetime  seen. 

And  thou  shalt  say  of  mercy,  “ It  hath  been,” 
And  living,  watch  the  old  lips  and  loves  expire. 
And  talking,  tears  shall  take  thy  breath  between 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man’s  desire. 

The  burden  of  sad  sayings.  In  that  day 

Thou  shalt  tell  all  thy  days  and  hours,  and  tell 
Thy  times  and  ways  and  words  of  love,  and  say 
How  one  was  dear  and  one  desirable. 


40 


A Ballad  of  Burdens 


And  sweet  was  life  to  hear  and  sweet  to  smell, 
But  now  with  lights  reverse  the  old  hours  retire 
And  the  last  hour  is  shod  with  fire  from  hell: 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  fair  seasons.  Rain  in  spring, 
White  rain  and  wind  among  the  tender  trees  ; 
A summer  of  green  sorrows  gathering, 

Rank  autumn  in  a mist  of  miseries. 

With  sad  face  set  toward  the  year,  that  sees 
The  charred  ash  drop  out  of  the  dropping  pyre. 
And  winter  wan  with  many  maladies : 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  dead  faces.  Out  of  sight 
And  out  of  love,  beyond  the  reach  of  hands. 
Changed  in  the  changing  of  the  dark  and  light, 
They  walk  and  weep  about  the  barren  lands 
4^ 


A Ballad  of  Burdens 


Where  no  seed  is  nor  any  garner  stands, 

Where  in  short  breaths  the  doubtful  days  respire, 

And  Time’s  turned  glass  lets  through  the  sighing 
sands : 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man’s  desire. 

The  burden  of  much  gladness.  Life  and  lust 
Forsake  thee,  and  the  face  of  thy  delight ; 

And  underfoot  the  heavy  hour  strews  dust. 

And  overhead  strange  weathers  burn  and  bite; 

And  where  the  red  was,  lo  the  bloodless  white, 

And  where  truth  was,  the  likeness  of  a liar. 

And  where  day  was,  the  likeness  of  the  night : 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man’s  desire. 

l’envoy 

Princes,  and  ye  whom  pleasure  quickeneth. 

Heed  well  this  rhyme  before  your  pleasure  tire  ; 

For  life  is  sweet,  but  after  life  is  death  : 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man’s  desire. 


42 


Madonna  Mia 


UNDER  green  apple-boughs 

That  never  a storm  will  rouse, 
My  lady  hath  her  house 
Between  two  bowers ; 

In  either  of  the  twain 
Red  roses  full  of  rain  ; 

She  hath  for  bondwomen 
All  kind  of  flowers. 

She  hath  no  handmaid  fair 
To  draw  her  curled  gold  hair 
Through  rings  of  gold  that  bear 
Her  whole  hair's  weight; 


43 


Madonna  Mia 


She  hath  no  maids  to  stand 
Gold-clothed  on  either  hand ; 

In  all  the  great  green  land 
None  is  so  great. 

She  hath  no  more  to  wear 
But  one  white  hood  of  vair 
Drawn  over  eyes  and  hair, 

Wrought  with  strange  gold, 
Made  for  some  great  queen’s  head. 
Some  fair  great  queen  since  dead ; 
And  one  strait  gown  of  red 
Against  the  cold. 

Beneath  her  eyelids  deep 
Love  lying  seems  asleep. 

Love,  swift  to  wake,  to  weep, 

To  laugh,  to  gaze ; 


44 


Madonna  Mia 


Her  breasts  are  like  white  birds, 
And  all  her  gracious  words 
As  water-grass  to  herds 
In  the  June-days. 


To  her  all  dews  that  fall 
And  rains  are  musical ; 

Her  flowers  are  fed  from  all, 
Her  joy  from  these  ; 

In  the  deep-feathered  firs 
Their  gift  of  joy  is  hers, 

In  the  least  breath  that  stirs 
Across  the  trees. 

She  grows  with  greenest  leaves, 
Ripens  with  reddest  sheaves, 
Forgets,  remembers,  grieves. 
And  is  not  sad ; 

45 


Madonna  Mia 


The  quiet  lands  and  skies 
Leave  light  upon  her  eyes  ; 

None  knows  her,  weak  or  wise, 

Or  tired  or  glad. 

None  knows,  none  understands. 
What  flowers  are  like  her  hands ; 
Though  you  should  search  all  lands 
Wherein  time  grows, 

What  snows  are  like  her  feet. 
Though  his  eyes  burn  with  heat 
Through  gazing  on  my  sweet, 

Yet  no  man  knows. 


Only  this  thing  is  said  ; 

That  white  and  gold  and  red, 

God's  three  chief  words,  man's  bread 
And  oil  and  wine, 

46 


Madonna  Mia 


Were  given  her  for  dowers, 

And  kingdom  of  all  hours 
And  grace  of  goodly  flowers 
And  various  vine. 

This  is  my  lady’s  praise  : 

God  after  many  days 
Wrought  her  in  unknown  ways, 
In  sunset  lands  ; 

This  was  my  lady’s  birth ; 

God  gave  her  might  and  mirth 
And  laid  his  whole  sweet  earth 
Between  her  hands. 

Under  deep  apple-boughs 
My  lady  hath  her  house ; 

She  wears  upon  her  brows 
The  flower  thereof ; 


47 


Madonna  Mia 


All  saying  but  what  God  saith 
To  her  is  as  vain  breath ; 

She  is  more  strong  than  death, 
Being  strong  as  love. 


48 


By  the  North  Sea 

Aland  that  is  lonelier  than  ruin ; 

A sea  that  is  stranger  than  death ; 

Far  fields  that  a rose  never  blew  in, 

Wan  waste  where  the  winds  lack  breath ; 
Waste  endless  and  boundless  and  flowerless, 
But  of  marsh-blossoms  fruitless  as  free ; 
Where  earth  lies  exhausted,  as  powerless 
To  strive  with  the  sea. 

Far  flickers  the  flight  of  the  swallows, 

Far  flutters  the  weft  of  the  grass 
Spun  dense  over  desolate  hollows 

More  pale  than  the  clouds  as  they  pass ; 


4 


49 


By  the  North  Sea 

Thick  woven  as  the  weft  of  a witch  is 

Round  the  heart  of  a thrall  that  hath  sinned, 
Whose  youth  and  the  wrecks  of  its  riches 
Are  waifs  on  the  wind. 


The  pastures  are  herdless  and  sheepless, 

No  pasture  or  shelter  for  herds : 

The  wind  is  relentless  and  sleepless. 

And  restless  and  songless  the  birds ; 

Their  cries  from  afar  fall  breathless, 

Their  wings  are  as  lightnings  that  flee ; 

For  the  land  has  two  lords  that  are  deathless: 
Death's  self,  and  the  sea. 

These  twain,  as  a king  with  his  fellow, 

Hold  converse  of  desolate  speech ; 

And  her  waters  are  haggard  and  yellow 
And  crass  with  the  scurf  of  the  beach  ; 

so 


By  the  North  Sea 

And  his  garments  are  gray  as  the  hoary 
Wan  sky  where  the  day  lies  dim ; 

And  his  power  is  to  her,  and  his  glory, 

As  hers  unto  him. 

In  the  pride  of  his  power  she  rejoices, 

In  her  glory  he  glows  and  is  glad  ; 

In  her  darkness  the  sound  of  his  voice  is. 
With  his  breath  she  dilates  and  is  mad : 

If  thou  slay  me,  O death,  and  outlive  me. 
Yet  thy  love  hath  fulfilled  me  of  thee.’' 

“ Shall  I give  thee  not  back  if  thou  give  me, 
O sister,  O sea  ? ” 

And  year  upon  year  dawns  living. 

And  age  upon  age  drops  dead : 

And  his  hand  is  not  weary  of  giving. 

And  the  thirst  of  her  heart  is  not  fed  ; 

5^- 


Of  ua 


By  the  North  Sea 

And  the  hunger  that  moans  in  her  passion, 
And  the  rage  in  her  hunger  that  roars, 
As  a wolfs  that  the  winter  lays  lash  on. 
Still  calls  and  implores. 

Her  walls  have  no  granite  for  girder, 

No  fortalice  fronting  her  stands ; 

But  reefs  the  bloodguiltiest  of  murder 
Are  less  than  the  banks  of  her  sands: 
These  number  their  slain  by  the  thousand ; 

For  the  ship  hath  no  surety  to  be, 

When  the  bank  is  abreast  of  her  bows  and 
Aflush  with  the  sea. 


No  surety  to  stand,  and  no  shelter 
To  dawn  out  of  darkness  but  one, 
Out  of  waters  that  hurtle  and  welter 
No  succour  to  dawn  with  the  sun ; 


S2 


By  the  North  Sea 

But  a rest  from  the  wind  as  it  passes, 
Where,  hardly  redeemed  from  the  waves, 

Lie  thick  as  the  blades  of  the  grasses 
The  dead  in  their  graves. 

A multitude  noteless  of  numbers. 

As  wild  weeds  cast  on  an  heap ; 

And  sounder  than  sleep  are  their  slumbers, 
And  softer  than  song  is  their  sleep ; 

And  sweeter  than  all  things  and  stranger 
The  sense,  if  perchance  it  may  be, 

That  the  wind  is  divested  of  danger 
And  scathless  the  sea. 

That  the  roar  of  the  banks  they  breasted 
Is  hurtless  as  bellowing  of  herds. 

And  the  strength  of  his  wings  that  invested 
The  wind,  as  the  strength  of  a bird’s ; 

S3 


By  the  North  Sea 

As  the  sea-mew’s  might  or  the  swallow’s 
That  cry  to  him  back  if  he  cries, 

As  over  the  graves  and  their  hollows 
Days  darken  and  rise. 

As  the  souls  of  the  dead  men  disburdened 
And  clean  of  the  sins  that  they  sinned, 
With  a lovelier  than  man’s  life  guerdoned 
And  delight  as  a wave’s  in  the  wind. 
And  delight  as  the  wind’s  in  the  billow. 
Birds  pass,  and  deride  with  their  glee 
The  flesh  that  has  dust  for  its  pillow. 

As  wrecks  have  the  sea. 


When  the  ways  of  the  sun  wax  dimmer, 
Wings  flash  through  the  dusk  like  beams ; 
As  the  clouds  in  the  lit  sky  glimmer, 

The  bird  in  the  graveyard  gleams ; 

54 


By  the  North  Sea 

As  the  cloud  at  its  wing’s  edge  whitens 
When  the  clarions  of  sunrise  are  heard, 
The  graves  that  the  bird’s  note  brightens 
Grow  bright  for  the  bird. 

As  the  waves  of  the  numberless  waters 
That  the  wind  cannot  number  who  guides 
Are  the  sons  of  the  shore  and  the  daughters 
Here  lulled  by  the  chime  of  the  tides  : 
And  here  in  the  press  of  them  standing 
We  know  not  if  these  or  if  we 
Live  truliest,  or  anchored  to  landing 
Or  drifted  to  sea. 


In  the  valley  he  named  of  decision 
No  denser  were  multitudes  met 
When  the  soul  of  the  seer  in  her  vision 
Saw  nations  for  doom  of  them  set ; 


55 


By  the  North  Sea 

Saw  darkness  in  dawn,  and  the  splendour 
Of  judgment,  the  sword  and  the  rod: 

But  the  doom  here  of  death  is  more  tender 
And  gentler  the  God. 

And  gentler  the  wind  from  the  dreary 
Sea-banks  by  the  waves  overlapped. 

Being  weary,  speaks  peace  to  the  weary 

From  slopes  that  the  tide-stream  hath  sapped ; 
And  sweeter  than  all  that  we  call  so 
The  seal  of  their  slumber  shall  be 
Till  the  graves  that  embosom  them  also 
Be  sapped  of  the  sea. 


Rondel 


HESE  many  years  since  we  began  to  be, 


^ What  have  the  gods  done  with  us?  what  with  me, 
What  with  my  love  ? they  have  shown  me  fates  and 


fears. 


Harsh  springs,  and  fountains  bitterer  than  the  sea, 
Grief  a fixed  star,  and  joy  a vane  that  veers. 


These  many  years. 


With  her,  my  love,  with  her  have  they  done  well? 
But  who  shall  answer  for  her  ? who  shall  tell 
Sweet  things  or  sad,  such  things  as  no  man  hears  ? 
May  no  tears  fall,  if  no  tears  ever  fell. 

From  eyes  more  dear  to  me  than  starriest  spheres 
These  many  years ! 


57 


Rondel 


But  if  tears  ever  touched,  for  any  grief, 

Those  eyelids  folded  like  a white-rose  leaf. 

Deep  double  shells  wherethrough  the  eye-flower  peers. 
Let  them  weep  once  more  only,  sweet  and  brief. 

Brief  tears  and  bright,  for  one  who  gave  her  tears 
These  many  years. 


An  Interlude 


IN  the  greenest  growth  of  the  Maytime, 

I rode  where  the  woods  were  wet, 

Between  the  dawn  and  the  daytime ; 

The  spring  was  glad  that  we  met. 

There  was  something  the  season  wanted, 
Though  the  ways  and  the  woods  smelt  sweet. 
The  breath  at  your  lips  that  panted, 

The  pulse  of  the  grass  at  your  feet. 

You  came,  and  the  sun  came  after. 

And  the  green  grew  golden  above ; 

And  the  flag-flowers  lightened  with  laughter. 
And  the  meadow-sweet  shook  with  love. 


59 


An  Interlude 


Your  feet  in  the  full-grown  grasses 
Moved  soft  as  a weak  wind  blows  ; 

You  passed  me  as  April  passes, 

With  face  made  out  of  a rose. 

By  the  stream  where  the  stems  were  slender, 
Your  bright  foot  paused  at  the  sedge; 

It  might' be  to  watch  the  tender 

Light  leaves  in  the  springtime  hedge. 

On  boughs  that  the  sweet  month  blanches 
With  flowery  frost  of  May : 

It  might  be  a bird  in  the  branches. 

It  might  be  a thorn  in  the  way. 

I waited  to  watch  you  linger 

With  foot  drawn  back  from  the  dew. 

Till  a sunbeam  straight  like  a finger 
Struck  sharp  through  the  leaves  at  you. 

6o 


An  Interlude 


And  a bird  overhead  sang  FolloWy 
And  a bird  to  the  right  sang  Here ; 

And  the  arch  of  the  leaves  was  hollow, 

And  the  meaning  of  May  was  clear. 

I saw  where  the  sun's  hand  pointed, 

I knew  what  the  bird’s  note  said ; 

By  the  dawn  and  the  dewfall  anointed, 

You  were  queen  by  the  gold  on  your  head. 

As  the  glimpse  of  a burnt-out  ember 
Recalls  a regret  of  the  sun, 

I remember,  forget,  and  remember 
What  Love  saw  done  and  undone. 

I remember  the  way  we  parted. 

The  day  and  the  way  we  met ; 

You  hoped  we  were  both  broken-hearted, 
And  knew  we  should  both  forget. 

6i 


An  Interlude 


And  May  with  her  world  in  flower 
Seemed  still  to  murmur  and  smile 
As  you  murmured  and  smiled  for  an  hour 
I saw  you  turn  at  the  stile. 

A hand  like  a white  wood-blossom 
You  lifted,  and  waved,  and  passed, 
With  head  hung  down  to  the  bosom, 

And  pale,  as  it  seemed,  at  last. 

And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  this  is 
That  neither  is  most  to  blame 
If  you ’ve  forgotten  my  kisses 
And  I ’ve  forgotten  your  name. 


62 


Anima  Anceps 

ILL  death  have  broken 


1 Sweet  life’s  love-token, 
Till  all  be  spoken 
That  shall  be  said, 

What  dost  thou  praying, 

O soul,  and  playing 
With  song  and  saying. 
Things  flown  and  fled  ? 
For  this  we  know  not  — 
That  fresh  springs  flow  not 
And  fresh  griefs  grow  not 
When  men  are  dead ; 
When  strange  years  cover 
Lover  and  lover. 

And  joys  are  over 
And  tears  are  shed. 


Anima  Anceps 

If  one  day's  sorrow 
Mar  the  day's  morrow  — 
If  man's  life  borrow 
And  man's  death  pay  — - 
If  souls  once  taken, 

If  lives  once  shaken, 

Arise,  awaken, 

By  night,  by  day  — 
Why  with  strong  crying 
And  years  of  sighing. 
Living  and  dying, 

Fast  ye  and  pray? 

For  all  your  weeping. 
Waking  and  sleeping. 
Death  comes  to  reaping 
And  takes  away. 

Though  time  rend  after 
Roof-tree  from  rafter, 

A little  laughter 

6^4 


Anima  Anceps 

Is  much  more  worth 
Than  thus  to  measure 
The  hour,  the  treasure, 
The  pain,  the  pleasure. 
The  death,  the  birth ; 
Grief,  when  days  alter. 
Like  joy  shall  falter  ; 
Song-book  and  psalter, 
Mourning  and  mirth. 
Live  like  the  swallow  ; 
Seek  not  to  follow 
Where  earth  is  hollow 
Under  the  earth. 


4 


6s 


April 

From  the  French  of  the  Vidame  de  Chartres 
12 ? 

WHEN  the  fields  catch  flower, 

And  the  underwood  is  green, 
And  from  bower  unto  bower 
The  songs  of  the  birds  begin, 

I sing  with  sighing  between. 

When  I laugh  and  sing, 

I am  heavy  at  heart  for  my  sin  ; 

I am  sad  in  the  spring 

For  my  love  that  I shall  not  win. 
For  a foolish  thing. 

66 


April 


This  profit  I have  of  my  woe, 

That  I know,  as  I sing, 

I know  he  will  needs  have  it  so 
Who  is  master  and  king. 

Who  is  lord  of  the  spirit  of  spring, 

I will  serve  her  and  will  not  spare 
Till  her  pity  awake 
Who  is  good,  who  is  pure,  who  is  fair, 
Even  her  for  whose  sake 
Love  hath  ta'en  me  and  slain  unaware. 


0 my  lord,  O Love, 

I have  laid  my  life  at  thy  feet ; 
Have  thy  will  thereof. 

Do  as  it  please  thee  with  it, 

For  what  shall  please  thee  is  sweet. 

1 am  come  unto  thee 

To  do  thee  service,  O Love ; 

67 


April 


Yet  cannot  I see 

Thou  wilt  take  any  pity  thereof, 

Any  mercy  on  mCo 

But  the  grace  I have  long  time  sought 
Comes  never  in  sight, 

If  in  her  it  abideth  not, 

Through  thy  mercy  and  might, 

Whose  heart  is  the  world’s  delight 
Thou  hast  sworn  without  fail  I shall  die, 
For  my  heart  is  set 
On  what  hurts  me,  I wot  not  why, 

But  cannot  forget 

What  1 love,  what  I sing  for  and  sigh. 

She  is  worthy  of  praise. 

For  this  grief  of  her  giving  is  worth 
All  the  joy  of  my  days 
That  lie  between  death’s  day  and  birth, 
All  the  lordship  of  things  upon  earth. 

68 


April 

Nay,  what  have  I said  ? 

I would  not  be  glad  if  I could ; 

My  dream  and  my  dread 
Are  of  her,  and  for  her  sake  I would 
That  my  life  were  fled. 

Lo,  sweet,  if  I durst  not  pray  to  you, 
Then  were  I dead  ; 

If  I sang  not  a little  to  say  to  you, 

(Could  it  be  said) 

O my  love,  how  my  heart  would  be  fed 
Ah  sweet  who  hast  hold  of  my  heart. 

For  thy  love's  sake  I live. 

Do  but  tell  me,  ere  either  depart 
What  a lover  may  give 
For  a woman  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  lovers  that  disbelieve. 

False  rumours  shall  grieve 
And  evil-speaking  shall  part. 

69 


Hope  and  Fear 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  dawn’s  aerial  cope, 

With  eyes  enkindled  as  the  sun’s  own  sphere, 
Hope  from  the  front  of  youth  in  godlike  cheer 
Looks  Godward,  past  the  shades  where  blind  men 
grope 

Round  the  dark  door  that  prayers  nor  dreams  can  ope. 
And  makes  for  joy  the  very  darkness  dear 
That  gives  her  wide  wings  play ; nor  dreams  that 
fear 

At  noon  may  rise  and  pierce  the  heart  of  hope. 

Then,  when  the  soul  leaves  off  to  dream  and  yearn. 
May  truth  first  purge  her  eyesight  to  discern 

What  once  being  known  leaves  time  no  power  to 
appal ; 

Till  youth  at  last,  ere  yet  youth  be  not,  learn 

The  kind  wise  word  that  falls  from  years  that  fall  — 
Hope  thou  not  much,  and  fear  thou  not  at  all.” 

70 


Hertha 


I AM  that  which  began ; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll ; 

Out  of  me  God  and  man ; 

I am  equal  and  whole ; 

God  changes,  and  man,  and  the  form  of  them  bodily; 
I am  the  soul. 

Before  ever  land  was, 

Before  ever  the  sea, 

Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 

Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree. 

Or  the  flesh-coloured  fruit  of  my  branches,  I was,  and 
thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 
First  drifted  and  swam  ; 


71 


Hertha 


Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn  ; 

Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  and  wild-beast  and  bird  : 
before  God  was,  I am. 

Beside  or  above  me 
Naught  is  there  to  go ; 

Love  or  unlove  me, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 

I am  that  which  unloves  me  and  loves;  I am 
stricken,  and  I am  the  blow. 

I the  mark  that  is  missed 
And  the  arrows  that  miss, 

I the  mouth  that  is  kissed 
And  the  breath  in  the  kiss. 

The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker,  the  soul 
and  the  body  that  is. 


72 


Hertha 


I am  that  thing  which  blesses 
My  spirit  elate ; 

That  which  caresses 
With  hands  uncreate 

My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the  length  of  the 
measure  of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now, 

Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
I am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

I am  low,  thou  art  high’'? 

I am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him ; find  thou 
but  thyself,  thou  art  I. 

I the  grain  and  the  furrow. 

The  plough-cloven  clod 

And  the  ploughshare  drawn  thorough, 

The  germ  and  the  sod. 

The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the  sower,  the 
dust  which  is  God. 


73 


Hertha 


Hast  thou  known  how  I fashioned  thee. 

Child,  underground  ? 

Fire  that  impassioned  thee, 

Iron  that  bound, 

Dim  changes  of  water,  what  thing  of  all  these  hast 
thou  known  of  or  found  ? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 
Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise, 

By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast  shapen,  and 
shown  on  my  breast  to  the  skies  ? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee. 
Knowledge  of  me  ? 

Has  the  wilderness  told  it  thee? 

Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea? 

Hast  thou  communed  in  spirit  with  night  ? have  the 
winds  taken  counsel  with  thee  ? 


74 


Hertha 


Have  I set  such  a star 
To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 
What  I show  to  thee  now  ? 

Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren  together,  the  sun  and 
the  mountains  and  thou  ? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it  ? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known  ? 

Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 

Nor  spirit  nor  flesh  can  make  answer,  but  only  thy 
mother  alone. 

Mother,  not  maker. 

Born,  and  not  made ; 

Though  her  children  forsake  her. 

Allured  or  afraid, 

Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion,  she  stirs 
not  for  all  that  have  prayed. 

75 


Hertha 


A creed  is  a rod, 

And  a crown  is  of  night ; 

But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 

To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit,  and 
live  out  thy  life  as  the  light. 

I am  in  thee  to  save  thee. 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith ; 

Give  thou  as  I gave  thee. 

Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 

Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,  white  flowers  of  thy 
thought,  and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 
As  mine  were  to  thee ; 

The  free  life  of  thy  living. 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free  ; 

Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to  slave,  shalt 
thou  give  thee  to  me. 

76 


Hertha 


0 children  of  banishment, 

Souls  overcast, 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 
Alway  to  last. 

Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the  shadows 
and  stars  overpast. 

1 that  saw  where  ye  trod 
The  dim  paths  of  the  night 

Set  the  shadow  called  God 
In  your  skies  to  give  light ; 

But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and  the 
shadowless  soul  is  in  sight. 

The  tree  many-rooted 
That  swells  to  the  sky 

With  frondage  red-fruited. 

The  life-tree  am  I ; 

In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my  leaves  : ye 
shall  live  and  not  die. 


77 


Hertha 


But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 
That  take  and  that  give, 

In  their  pity  and  passion 
That  scourge  and  forgive, 

They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark  that  falls 
off ; they  shall  die  and  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches  ^ 

The  wounds  in  my  bark ; 

Stars  caught  in  my  branches 
Make  day  of  the  dark. 

And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall 
tread  out  their  fires  as  a spark. 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 
The  live  roots  of  the  tree. 

In  my  darkness  the  thunder 
Makes  utterance  of  me; 

In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other  ye  hear 
the  waves  sound  of  the  sea. 

78 


Hertha 


That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 
Through  the  boughs  overhead, 

And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and  rustles,  and 
branches  are  bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 
Blow  through  me  and  cease, 

The  war-wind  that  rages. 

The  spring-wind  of  peace. 

Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses,  ere  one  of 
my  blossoms  increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes. 

All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world’s  mountain-ranges 
And  stream-riven  heights. 

Whose  tongue  is  the  wind’s  tongue  and  language  of 
storm-clouds  on  earth-shaking  nights  ; 

79 


Hertha 


All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 

In  unsearchable  places 
Of  time-stricken  lands, 

All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all  ruins,  drop 
through  me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know. 

And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 
But  only  to  grow. 

Yet  I fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings  above  me  or 
deathworms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I too  in  these ; 

Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me. 

Such  sap  is  this  tree’s. 

Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of  infinite 
lands  and  of  seas. 


8o 


Hertha 


In  the  spring-coloured  hours 
When  my  mind  was  as  May's 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 
By  centuries  of  days, 

Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,  shot  out 
from  my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 
And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 
And  strength  to  my  roots  ; 

And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfedt  with  free- 
dom of  soul  were  my  fruits. 

I bid  you  but  be ; 

I have  need  not  of  prayer; 

I have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air ; 

That  my  heart  may  be  greater  within  me,  beholding 
the  fruits  of  me  fair. 

6 8i 


Hertha 


More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 
Of  faiths  ye  espouse ; 

In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs ; 

Behold  now  your  God  that  ye  made  you,  to  feed  him 
with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 
Abysses  adored, 

With  dayspring  and  lightning 
For  lamp  and  for  sword, 

God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  red  with 
the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O my  sons,  O too  dutiful 
Toward  Gods  not  of  me. 

Was  not  I enough  beautiful  ? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free? 

For  behold,  I am  with  you,  am  in  you  and  of  you; 
look  forth  now  and  see. 

82 


Hertha 


Lo,  winged  with  world’s  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 

With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 
For  raiment  and  rod, 

God  trembles  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  white 
with  the  terror  of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here; 

And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 

Grown  gray  from  his  fear; 

And  his  hour  taketh  hold  on  him  stricken,  the  last  of 
his  infinite  year. 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him, 

Truth  slays  and  forgives; 

But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 

This  new  thing  it  gives. 

Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that  feeds  upon  free- 
dom and  lives. 


33 


Hertha 


For  truth  only  is  living, 

Truth  only  is  whole, 

And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man’s  polestar  and  pole; 

Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my  body,  and 
seed  of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom ; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye ; 

One  topmost  blossom 
That  scales  the  sky ; 

Man,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made  of  me, 
man  that  is  I. 


84 


A Leave-Taking 


ET  us  go  hence,  my  songs ; she  will  not  hear. 


Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear ; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing-time  is  over, 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear. 


She  would  not  hear. 


Let  us  rise  up  and  part ; she  will  not  know. 

Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go, 

Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam;  what  help  is  here  ? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so. 

And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a tear. 

And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show, 


She  would  not  know. 

35 


A Leave-Taking 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence ; she  will  not  weep. 

We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep, 
Flowers  without  scent,  and  fruits  that  would  not  grow. 
Saying  “ If  thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap.” 
All  is  reaped  now ; no  grass  is  left  to  mow ; 

And  we  that  sowed,  though  all  we  fell  on  sleep, 

She  would  not  weep. 

Let  us  go  hence  and  rest ; she  will  not  love. 

She  shall  not  hear  us  if  we  sing  hereof. 

Nor  see  love’s  ways,  how  sore  they  are  and  steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,  lie  still ; it  is  enough. 

Love  is  a barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep  ; 

And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above. 

She  would  not  love. 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down ; she  will  not  care. 

Though  all  the  stars  made  gold  of  all  the  air, 

And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 

86 


A Leave-Taking 

One  moon-flower  making  all  the  foam-flowers  fair ; 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips  and  drowning  hair, 

She  would  not  care. 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  hence  ; she  will  not  see. 

Sing  all  once  more  together ; surely  she, 

She  too,  remembering  days  and  words  that  were. 

Will  turn  a little  toward  us,  sighing;  but  we. 

We  are  hence,  we  are  gone,  as  though  we  had  not 
been  there. 

Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me. 

She  would  not  see. 


87 


Rondel 


Kissing  her  hair  I sat  against  her  feet, 

Wove  and  unwove  it,  wound  and  found  it 
sweet ; 

Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down  her  eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers  and  dreamy  like  dim  skies ; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound  and  found  her  fair, 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me. 

Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea ; 

What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers  ? 

What  new  sweet  thing  would  love  not  relish  worse  ? 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  death  had  kissed  me  there. 
Kissing  her  hair  ? 

88 


Children 


OF  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
No  glory  that  ever  was  shed 
From  the  crowning  star  of  the  seven 
That  crown  the  north  world's  head, 

No  word  that  ever  was  spoken 
Of  human  or  godlike  tongue, 

Gave  ever  such  godlike  token 
Since  human  harps  were  strung. 

No  sign  that  ever  was  given 
To  faithful  or  faithless  eyes 
Showed  ever  beyond  clouds  riven 
So  clear  a Paradise, 

89 


Children 


Earth’s  creeds  may  be  seventy  times  seven, 
And  blood  have  defiled  each  creed ; 

If  of  such  be  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 

It  must  be  heaven  indeed. 


90 


A Child’s  Laughter 


LL  the  bells  of  heaven  may  ring, 


All  the  birds  of  heaven  may  sing, 
All  the  wells  on  earth  may  spring, 

All  the  winds  on  earth  may  bring 
All  sweet  sounds  together; 

Sweeter  far  than  all  things  heard, 

Hand  of  harper,  tone  of  bird, 

Sound  of  woods  at  sundawn  stirred. 
Welling  water's  winsome  word, 

Wind  in  warm  wan  weather, 

One  thing  yet  there  is,  that  none 
Hearing  ere  its  chime  be  done 
Knows  not  well  the  sweetest  one 
Heard  of  man  beneath  the  sun. 


A Child’s  Laughter 


Hoped  in  heaven  hereafter; 

Soft  and  strong  and  loud  and  light. 
Very  sound  of  very  light 
Heard  from  morning’s  rosiest  height, 
When  the  soul  of  all  delight 
Fills  a child’s  clear  laughter. 

Golden  bells  of  welcome  rolled 
Never  forth  such  notes,  nor  told 
Hours  so  blithe  in  tones  so  bold, 

As  the  radiant  mouth  of  gold 
Here  that  rings  forth  heaven. 

If  the  golden-crested  wren 
Were  a nightingale,  why,  then, 
Something  seen  and  heard  of  men 
Might  be  half  as  sweet  as  when 
Laughs  a child  of  seven. 


92 


Cradle  Songs 

( To  a Tune  of  Blake's,) 

I 

Baby,  baby  bright, 

Sleep  can  steal  from  sight 
Little  of  your  light : 

Soft  as  fire  in  dew. 

Still  the  life  in  you 
Lights  your  slumber  through. 

Four  white  eyelids  keep 
Fast  the  seal  of  sleep 
Deep  as  love  is  deep  : 


93 


Cradle  Songs 

Yet,  though  closed  it  lies, 
Love  behind  them  spies 
Heaven  in  two  blue  eyes. 

II 

Baby,  baby  dear. 

Earth  and  heaven  are  near 
Now,  for  heaven  is  here. 

Heaven  is  every  place 
Where  your  flower-sweet  face 
Fills  our  eyes  with  grace. 

Till  your  own  eyes  deign 
Earth  a glance  again, 

Earth  and  heaven  are  twain. 

Now  your  sleep  is  done. 
Shine,  and  show  the  sun 
Earth  and  heaven  are  one. 


94 


Cradle  Songs 


III 

Baby,  baby  sweet, 

Love’s  own  lips  are  meet 
Scarce  to  kiss  your  feet. 

Hardly  love’s  own  ear. 

When  your  laugh  crows  clear, 
Quite  deserves  to  hear. 

Hardly  love’s  own  wile. 
Though  it  please  awhile. 

Quite  deserves  your  smile. 

Baby  full  of  grace. 

Bless  us  yet  a space ; 

Sleep  will  come  apace. 


95 


Cradle  Songs 


IV 

Baby,  baby  true, 

Man,  whate’er  he  do, 

May  deceive  not  you. 

Smiles  whose  love  is  guile, 
Worn  a flattering  while. 
Win  from  you  no  smile. 

One,  the  smile  alone 
Out  of  love’s  heart  grown, 
Ever  wins  your  own. 

Man,  a dunce  uncouth. 
Errs  in  age  and  youth : 
Babies  know  the  truth. 


96 


Cradle  Songs 


V 

Baby,  baby  fair, 

Love  is  fain  to  dare 
Bless  your  haughtiest  air. 

Baby  blithe  and  bland, 

Reach  but  forth  a hand 
None  may  dare  withstand ; 

Love,  though  wellnigh  cowed, 
Yet  would  praise  aloud 
Pride  so  sweetly  proud. 

No  ! the  fitting  word 
Even  from  breeze  or  bird 
Never  yet  was  heard. 


7 


97 


Cradle  Songs 


VI 

Baby,  baby  kind, 

Though  no  word  we  find. 
Bear  us  yet  in  mind. 

Half  a little  hour. 

Baby  bright  in  bower. 
Keep  this  thought  aflower 

Love  it  is,  I see, 

Here  with  heart  and  knee 
Bows  and  worships  me. 

What  can  baby  do, 

Then,  for  love  so  true?  — 
Let  it  worship  you. 


98 


Cradle  Songs 


VII 

Baby,  baby  wise, 

Love’s  divine  surmise 
Lights  your  constant  eyes. 

Day  and  night  and  day 
One  mute  word  would  they, 
As  the  soul  saith,  say. 

Trouble  comes  and  goes  ; 
Wonder  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Love  remains  and  glows. 

As  the  fledgeling  dove 
Feels  the  breast  above. 

So  your  heart  feels  love. 


99 


Herse 


WHEN  grace  is  given  us  ever  to  behold 
A child  some  sweet  months  old, 

Love,  laying  across  our  lips  his  finger,  saith. 
Smiling,  with  bated  breath. 

Hush  ! for  the  holiest  thing  that  lives  is  here. 

And  heaven’s  own  heart  how  near ! 

How  dare  we,  that  may  gaze  not  on  the  sun, 

Gaze  on  this  verier  one  ? 

Heart,  hold  thy  peace  : eyes,  be  cast  down  for  shame 
Lips,  breathe  not  yet  its  name. 

In  heaven  they  know  what  name  to  call  it ; we. 

How  should  we  know  ? For,  see  ! 

The  adorable  sweet  living  marvellous 
Strange  light  that  lightens  us 


100 


Herse 


Who  gaze,  desertless  of  such  glorious  grace, 

Full  in  a babe's  warm  face  ! 

All  roses  that  the  morning  rears  are  naught, 

All  stars  not  worth  a thought, 

Set  this  one  star  against  them,  or  suppose 
As  rival  this  one  rose. 

What  price  could  pay  with  earth's  whole  weight  of 
gold 

One  least  flushed  roseleaf  s fold 
Of  all  this  dimpling  store  of  smiles  that  shine 
From  each  warm  curve  and  line 
Each  charm  of  flower-sweet  flesh,  to  reillume 
The  dappled  rose-red  bloom 
Of  all  its  dainty  body,  honey-sweet 

Clenched  hands  and  curled-up  feet, 

That  on  the  roses  of  the  dawn  have  trod 
As  they  came  down  from  God, 

And  keep  the  flush  and  colour  that  the  sky 
Takes  when  the  sun  comes  nigh. 


roi 


Herse 


And  keep  the  likeness  of  the  smile  their  grace 
Evoked  on  God’s  own  face 
When,  seeing  this  work  of  his  most  heavenly  mood, 
He  saw  that  it  was  good  ? 

For  all  its  warm  sweet  body  seems  one  smile. 

And  mere  men’s  love  too  vile 
To  meet  it,  or  with  eyes  that  worship  dims 
Read  o’er  the  little  limbs, 

Read  all  the  book  of  all  their  beauties  o’er. 

Rejoice,  revere,  adore. 

Bow  down  and  worship  each  delight  in  turn. 

Laugh,  wonder,  yield,  and  yearn. 

But  when  our  trembling  kisses  dare,  yet  dread. 

Even  to  draw  nigh  its  head, 

And  touch,  and  scarce  with  touch  or  breath  surprise 
Its  mild  miraculous  eyes 
Out  of  their  viewless  vision  — O,  what  then. 

What  may  be  said  of  men } 


102 


Herse 


What  speech  may  name  a new-born  child  ? what  word 
Earth  ever  spake  or  heard  ? 

The  best  men’s  tongue  that  ever  glory  knew 
Called  that  a drop  of  dew 
Which  from  the  breathing  creature’s  kindly  womb 
Came  forth  in  blameless  bloom. 

We  have  no  word,  as  had  those  men  most  high, 

To  call  a baby  by. 

Rose,  ruby,  lily,  pearl  of  stormless  seas  — 

A better  word  than  these, 

A better  sign  it  was  than  flower  or  gem 
That  love  revealed  to  them : 

They  knew  that  whence  comes  light  or  quickening 
flame, 

Thence  only  this  thing  came, 

And  only  might  be  likened  of  our  love 
To  somewhat  born  above. 

Not  even  to  sweetest  things  dropped  else  on  earth, 
Only  to  dew’s  own  birth. 

103 


Herse 


Nor  doubt  we  but  their  sense  was  heavenly  true, 
Babe,  when  we  gaze  on  you, 

A dew-drop  out  of  heaven  whose  colours  are 
More  bright  than  sun  or  star. 

As  now,  ere  watching  love  dare  fear  or  hope. 
Lips,  hands,  and  eyelids  ope, 

And  all  your  life  is  mixed  with  earthly  leaven. 

O child,  what  news  from  heaven  ? 


104 


A Child’s  Sleep 

AS  light  on  a lake’s  face  moving 
Between  a cloud  and  a cloud 
Till  night  reclaim  it,  reproving 
The  heart  that  exults  too  loud, 

The  heart  that  watching  rejoices 
When  soft  it  swims  into  sight 
Applauded  of  all  the  voices 
And  stars  of  the  windy  night. 

So  brief  and  unsure,  but  sweeter 
Than  ever  a moondawn  smiled. 
Moves,  measured  of  no  tune’s  metre. 
The  song  in  the  soul  of  a child  ; 


A Child’s  Sleep 

The  song  that  the  sweet  soul  singing 
Half  listens,  and  hardly  hears, 

Though  sweeter  than  joy-bells  ringing 
And  brighter  than  joy’s  own  tears ; 

The  song  that  remembrance  of  pleasure 
Begins,  and  forgetfulness  ends 
With  a soft  swift  change  in  the  measure 
That  rings  in  remembrance  of  friends. 


As  the  moon  on  the  lake’s  face  flashes, 
So  haply  may  gleam  at  whiles 
A dream  through  the  dear  deep  lashes 
Whereunder  a child’s  eye  smiles. 

And  the  least  of  us  all  that  love  him 
May  take  for  a moment  part 
With  angels  around  and  above  him, 
And  I find  place  in  his  heart. 

io6 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

{After  the  Proclamation  in  Rome  of  the  Christian  FaitJi) 

ViciSTi,  Galil.ee 

I HAVE  lived  long  enough,  having  seen  one  thing, 
that  love  hath  an  end ; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now  and 
befriend. 

Thou  art  more  than  the  day  or  the  morrow,  the 
seasons  that  laugh  or  that  weep  ; 

For  these  give  joy  and  sorrow : but  thou,  Proserpina, 
sleep. 

Sweet  is  the  treading  of  wine,  and  sweet  the  feet  of 
the  dove ; 

But  a goodlier  gift  is  thine  than  foam  of  the  grapes  or 
love. 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

Yea,  is  not  even  Apollo,  with  hair  and  harp-string  of 
gold, 

A bitter  god  to  follow,  a beautiful  god  to  behold  ? 

I am  sick  of  singing  : the  bays  burn  deep  and  chafe : 
I am  fain 

To  rest  a little  from  praise  and  grievous  pleasure  and 
pain. 

For  the  gods  we  know  not  of,  who  give  us  our  daily 
breath. 

We  know  they  are  cruel  as  love  or  life,  and  lovely  as 
death. 

O gods  dethroned  and  deceased,  cast  forth,  wiped  out 
in  a day ! 

From  your  wrath  is  the  world  released,  redeemed 
from  your  chains,  men  say. 

New  gods  are  crowned  in  the  city ; their  flowers 
have  broken  your  rods;  ^ 

They  are  merciful,  clothed  with  pity,  the  young  com- 
passionate gods. 


io8 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

But  for  me  their  new  device  is  barren,  the  days  are 
bare; 

Things  long  past  over  suffice,  and  men  forgotten  that 
were. 

Time  and  the  gods  are  at  strife;  ye  dwell  in  the 
midst  thereof. 

Draining  a little  life  from  the  barren  breasts  of  love. 

I say  to  you,  cease,  take  rest ; yea,  I say  to  you  all, 
be  at  peace. 

Till  the  bitter  milk  of  her  breast  and  the  barren 
bosom  shall  cease. 

Wilt  thou  yet  take  all,  Galilean?  but  these  thou  shalt 
not  take, 

The  laurel,  the  palms  and  the  paean,  the  breasts  of  the 
nymphs  in  the  brake ; 

Breasts  more  soft  than  a dove’s,  that  tremble  with 
tenderer  breath ; 

And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and  all  the  joy  before 
death ; 

109 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

All  the  feet  of  the  hours  that  sound  as  a single 
lyre, 

Dropped  and  deep  in  the  flowers,  with  strings  that 
flicker  like  fire. 

More  than  these  wilt  thou  give,  things  fairer  than  all 
these  things? 

Nay,  for  a little  we  live,  and  life  hath  mutable  wings. 

A little  while  and  we  die : shall  life  not  thrive  as  it 
may  ? 

For  no  man  under  the  sky  lives  twice,  outliving  his 
day. 

And  grief  is  a grievous  thing,  and  a man  hath  enough 
of  his  tears: 

Why  should  he  labour,  and  bring  fresh  grief  to  blacken 
his  years  ? 

Thou  hast  conquered,  O pale  Galilean ; the  world  has 
grown  gray  from  thy  breath ; 

We  have  drunken  of  things  Lethean,  and  fed  on  the 
fulness  of  death. 


no 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

Laurel  is  green  for  a season,  and  love  is  sweet  for  a 
day; 

But  love  grows  bitter  with  treason,  and  laurel  out- 
lives not  May. 

Sleep,  shall  we  sleep  after  all  ? for  the  world  is  not 
sweet  in  the  end  ; 

For  the  old  faiths  loosen  and  fall,  the  new  years  ruin 
and  rend- 

Fate  is  a sea  without  shore,  and  the  soul  is  a rock 
that  abides : 

But  her  ears  are  vexed  with  the  roar  and  her  face 
with  the  foam  of  the  tides. 

O lips  that  the  live  blood  faints  in,  the  leavings  of 
racks  and  rods  ! 

0 ghastly  glories  of  saints,  dead  limbs  of  gibbeted  gods ! 
Though  all  men  abase  them  before  you  in  spirit,  and 

all  knees  bend, 

1 kneel  not,  neither  adore  you,  but  standing,  look  to 

the  end. 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

All  delicate  days  and  pleasant,  all  spirits  and  sorrows 
are  cast 

Far  out  with  the  foam  of  the  present  that  sweeps  to 
the  surf  of  the  past : 

Where  beyond  the  extreme  sea-wall,  and  between  the 
remote  sea-gates. 

Waste  water  washes,  and  tall  ships  founder,  and  deed 
death  waits : 

Where,  mighty  with  deepening  sides,  clad  about  with 
the  seas  as  with  wings, 

And  impelled  of  invisible  tides,  and  fulfilled  of  un- 
speakable things. 

White-eyed  and  poisonous-finned,  shark-toothed  and 
serpentine-curled. 

Rolls,  under  the  whitening  wind  of  the  future,  the 
wave  of  the  world. 

The  depths  stand  naked  in  sunder  behind  it,  the 
storms  flee  away  ; 

In  the  hollow  before  it  the  thunder  is  taken  and 
snared  as  a prey ; 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

In  its  sides  is  the  north-wind  bound ; and  its  salt  is 
of  all  men's  tears ; 

With  light  of  ruin,  and  sound  of  changes,  and  pulse 
of  years : 

With  travail  of  day  after  day,  and  with  trouble  of 
hour  upon  hour ; 

And  bitter  as  blood  is  the  spray ; and  the  crests  are 
as  fangs  that  devour: 

And  its  vapour  and  storm  of  its  steam  as  the  sighing 
of  spirits  to  be ; 

And  its  noise  as  the  noise  in  a dream ; and  its  depth 
as  the  roots  of  the  sea  : 

And  the  height  of  its  heads  as  the  height  of  the  ut- 
most stars  of  the  air  : 

And  the  ends  of  the  earth  at  the  might  thereof 
tremble,  and  time  is  made  bare. 

Will  ye  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins,  will  ye  chasten 
the  high  sea  with  rods  ? 

Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains,  who  is 
older  than  all  ye  gods  ? 

8 113 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

All  ye  as  a wind  shall  go  by,  as  a fire  shall  ye  pass 
and  be  past ; 

Ye  are  gods,  and  behold,  ye  shall  die,  and  the  waves 
be  upon  you  at  last. 

In  the  darkness  of  time,  in  the  deeps  of  the  years,  in 
the  changes  of  things, 

Ye  shall  sleep  as  a slain  man  sleeps,  and  the  world 
shall  forget  you  for  kings. 

Though  the  feet  Oi  thine  high  priests  tread  where  thy 
lords  and  our  forefathers  trod. 

Though  these  that  were  gods  are  dead,  and  thou  be- 
ing dead  art  a god. 

Though  before  thee  the  throned  Cytherean  be  fallen, 
and  hidden  her  head, 

Yet  thy  kingdom  shall  pass,  Galilean,  thy  dead  shall 
go  down  to  thee  dead. 

Of  the  maiden  thy  mother  men  sing  as  a goddess  with 
grace  clad  around ; 

Thou  art  throned  where  another  was  king;  where 
another  was  queen  she  is  crowned. 

114 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

Yea,  once  we  had  sight  of  another:  but  now  she  is 
queen,  say  these. 

Not  as  thine,  not  as  thine  was  our  mother,  — a blos- 
som of  flowering  seas. 

Clothed  round  with  the  world’s  desire  as  with  raiment, 
and  fair  as  the  foam. 

And  fleeter  thali  kindled  fire,  and  a goddess,  and 
mother  of  Rome. 

For  thine  came  pale  and  a maiden,  and  sister  to  sor- 
row ; but  ours. 

Her  deep  hair  heavily  laden  with  odour  and  colour  of 
flowers. 

White  rose  of  the  rose-white  water,  a silver  splendour, 
a flame 

Bent  down  unto  us  that  besought  her,  and  earth  grew 
sweet  with  her  name. 

For  thine  came  weeping,  a slave  among  slaves,  and 
rejected ; but  she 

Came  flushed  from  the  full  flushed  wave,  and  imperial, 
her  foot  on  the  sea. 


IIS 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

And  the  wonderful  waters  knew  her,  the  winds  and 
the  viewless  ways, 

And  the  roses  grew  rosier,  and  bluer  the  sea-blue 
stream  of  the  bays. 

Ye  are  fallen,  our  lords,  by  what  token  ? we  wist  that 
ye  should  not  fall. 

Ye  were  all  so  fair  that  are  broken ; and  one  more 
fair  than  ye  all. 

But  I turn  to  her  still,  having  seen  she  shall  surely 
abide  in  the  end  ; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now  and 
befriend. 

0 daughter  of  earth,  of  my  mother,  her  crown  and 

blossom  of  birth, 

1 am  also,  I also,  thy  brother;  I go  as  I came  unto 

earth. 

In  the  night  where  thine  eyes  are  as  moons  are  in 
heaven,  the  night  where  thou  art. 

Where  the  silence  is  more  than  all  tunes,  where  sleep 
overflows  from  the  heart, 

1 16 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

Where  the  poppies  are  sweet  as  the  rose  in  our  world, 
and  the  red  rose  is  white, 

And  the  wind  falls  faint  as  it  blows  with  the  fume  of 
the  flowers  of  the  night, 

And  the  murmur  of  spirits  that  sleep  in  the  shadow 
of  gods  from  afar 

Grows  dim  in  thine  ears  and  deep  as  the  deep  dim 
soul  of  a star, 

In  the  sweet  low  light  of  thy  face,  under  heavens  un- 
trod by  the  sun, 

Let  my  soul  with  their  souls  find  place,  and  forget 
what  is  done  and  undone. 

Thou  art  more  than  the  gods  who  number  the  days 
of  our  temporal  breath ; 

For  these  give  labour  and  slumber;  but  thou,  Proser- 
pina, death. 

Therefore  now  at  thy  feet  I abide  for  a season  in 
silence,  I know 

I shall  die  as  my  fathers  died,  and  sleep  as  they  sleep; 

117 


even  so. 


Hymn  to  Proserpine 

For  the  glass  of  the  years  is  brittle  wherein  we  gaze 
for  a span ; 

A little  soul  for  a little  bears  up  this  corpse  which  is 
man.^ 

So  long  I endure,  no  longer;  and  laugh  not  again, 
neither  weep. 

For  there  is  no  god  found  stronger  than  death;  and 
death  is  a sleep. 

1 yj/'VxdpLOj/  ei  ^aard^ov  V€Kp6v.  EpICTETUS. 


ii8 


Sapphics 

All  the  night  sleep  came  not  upon  my  eyelids, 
Shed  not  dew,  nor  shook  nor  unclosed  a feather, 
Yet  with  lips  shut  close  and  with  eyes  of  iron 
Stood  and  beheld  me. 

Then  to  me  so  lying  awake  a vision 

Came  without  sleep  over  the  seas  and  touched  me, 

Softly  touched  mine  eyelids  and  lips ; and  I too, 

Full  of  the  vision. 

Saw  the  white  implacable  Aphrodite, 

Saw  the  hair  unbound  and  the  feet  unsandalled 
Shine  as  fire  of  sunset  on  western  waters  ; 

Saw  the  reludlant 


119 


Sapphics 

Feet,  the  straining  plumes  of  the  doves  that  drew  her, 
Looking  always,  looking  with  necks  reverted. 

Back  to  Lesbos,  back  to  the  hills  whereunder 
Shone  Mitylene ; 

Heard  the  flying  feet  of  the  Loves  behind  her 
Make  a sudden  thunder  upon  the  waters. 

As  the  thunder  flung  from  the  strong  unclosing 
Wings  of  a great  wind. 

So  the  goddess  fled  from  her  place,  with  awful 
Sound  of  feet  and  thunder  of  wings  around  her ; 
While  behind  a clamour  of  singing  women 
Severed  the  twilight. 

Ah  the  singing,  ah  the  delight,  the  passion  ! 

All  the  Loves  wept,  listening ; sick  with  anguish, 
Stood  the  crowned  nine  Muses  about  Apollo ; 

Fear  was  upon  them, 


120 


Sapphics 

While  the  tenth  sang  wonderful  things  they  knew  not. 
Ah  the  tenth,  the  Lesbian  ! the  nine  were  silent, 
None  endured  the  sound  of  her  song  for  weeping; 
Laurel  by  laurel. 

Faded  all  their  crowns  ; but  about  her  forehead. 
Round  her  woven  tresses  and  ashen  temples 
White  as  dead  snow,  paler  than  grass  in  summer, 
Ravaged  with  kisses, 

Shone  a light  of  fire  as  a crown  forever. 

Yea,  almost  the  implacable  Aphrodite 
Paused,  and  almost  wept ; such  a song  was  that  song. 
Yea,  by  her  name  too 

Called  her,  saying,  ‘‘  Turn  to  me,  O my  Sappho ; ’’ 

Yet  she  turned  her  face  from  the  Loves,  she  saw  not 
Tears  for  laughter  darken  immortal  eyelids. 

Heard  not  about  her 


Sapphics 

Fearful  fitful  wings  of  the  doves  departing, 

Saw  not  how  the  bosom  of  Aphrodite 
Shook  with  weeping,  saw  not  her  shaken  raiment. 
Saw  not  her  hands  wrung ; 

Saw  the  Lesbians  kissing  across  their  smitten 
Lutes  with  lips  more  sweet  than  the  sound  of  lute- 
strings. 

Mouth  to  mouth  and  hand  upon  hand,  her  chosen. 
Fairer  than  all  men  ; 

Only  saw  the  beautiful  lips  and  fingers, 

Full  of  songs  and  kisses  and  little  whispers. 

Full  of  music  ; only  beheld  among  them 
Soar  as  a bird  soars 

Newly  fledged,  her  visible  song,  a marvel. 

Made  of  perfedl  sound  and  exceeding  passion, 

Sweetly  shapen,  terrible,  full  of  thunders. 

Clothed  with  the  wind's  wings. 


Sapphics 

Then  rejoiced  she,  laughing  with  love,  and  scattered 
Roses,  awful  roses  of  holy  blossom ; 

Then  the  Loves  thronged  sadly  with  hidden  faces 
Round  Aphrodite, 

Then  the  Muses,  stricken  at  heart,  were  silent ; 

Yea,  the  gods  waxed  pale;  such  a song  was  that  song 
All  reludlant,  all  with  a fresh  repulsion, 

Fled  from  before  her. 

All  withdrew  long  since,  and  the  land  was  barren. 
Full  of  fruitless  women  and  music  only. 

Now  perchance,  when  winds  are  assuaged  at  sunset, 
Lulled  at  the  dewfall. 

By  the  gray  sea-side,  unassuaged,  unheard  of, 
Unbeloved,  unseen  in  the  ebb  of  twilight. 

Ghosts  of  outcast  women  return  lamenting. 

Purged  not  in  Lethe. 


123 


Sapphics 

Clothed  about  with  flame  and  with  tears,  and  singing 
Songs  that  move  the  heart  of  the  shaken  heaven, 
Songs  that  break  the  heart  of  the  earth  with  pity. 
Hearing,  to  hear  them. 


124 


Ityl 


us 


SWALLOW,  my  sister,  O sister  swallow. 

How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring? 

A thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 

What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow  ? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing  ? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed  ? 


O swallow,  sister,  O fair  swift  swallow. 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south. 

The  soft  south  whither  thine  heart  is  set? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow  ? 

Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy  mouth? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I forget  ? 

125 


Itylus 

Sister,  my  sister,  O fleet  sweet  swallow, 

Thy  way  is  long  to  the  sun  and  the  south ; 

But  I,  fulfilled  of  my  heart’s  desire. 

Shedding  my  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 

From  tawny  body  and  sweet  small  mouth 
Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire. 

I the  nightingale  all  spring  through, 

O swallow,  sister,  O changing  swallow. 

All  spring  through  till  the  spring  be  done. 
Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the  dew. 

Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds  follow. 
Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 

Sister,  my  sister,  O soft  light  swallow. 

Though  all  things  feast  in  the  spring’s  guest- 
chamber. 

How  hast  thou  heart  to  be  glad  thereof  yet  ? 

For  where  thou  fliest  I shall  not  follow, 

126 


Till  life  forget  and  death  remember, 

Till  thou  remember  and  I forget. 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O singing  swallow, 

I know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing. 

Hast  thou  the  heart?  is  it  all  past  over? 

Thy  lord  the  summer  is  good  to  follow, 

And  fair  the  feet  of  thy  lover  the  spring : 

But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  the  spring  thy  lover 

O swallow,  sister,  O fleeting  swallow. 

My  heart  in  me  is  a molten  ember 
And  over  my  head  the  waves  have  met. 

But  thou  wouldst  tarry  or  I would  follow. 

Could  I forget  or  thou  remember, 

Couldst  thou  remember  and  I forget. 

O sweet  stray  sister,  O shifting  swallow. 

The  heart's  division  divideth  us. 

Thy  heart  is  light  as  a leaf  of  a tree ; 


Itylus 

But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 

The  feast  of  Daulis,  the  Thracian  sea. 

O swallow,  sister,  O rapid  swallow, 

I pray  thee  sing  not  a little  space. 

Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet? 

The  woven  web  that  was  plain  to  follow. 

The  small  slain  body,  the  flower-like  face. 

Can  I remember  if  thou  forget  ? 

O sister,  sister,  thy  first-begotten ! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow. 
The  voice  of  the  child's  blood  crying  yet 
Wko  hath  remembered  me  ? who  hath  forgotten  ? 
Thou  hast  forgotten,  O summer  swallow. 

But  the  world  shall  end  when  I forget. 


128 


A Match 


IF  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief ; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  I were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I were  what  the  words  are. 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle. 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 
That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
129 


9 


A Match 


If  I were  what  the  words  are 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I your  love  were  death, 

We ’d  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 
With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 

And  I your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  I were  page  to  joy, 

We ’d  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy ; 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I were  page  to  joy. 

130 


A Match 


If  you  were  April’s  lady, 

And  I were  lord  in  May, 

We ’d  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 
And  night  were  bright  like  day ; 
If  you  were  April’s  lady, 

And  I were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 

And  I were  king  of  pain. 

We ’d  hunt  down  love  together. 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather. 

And  teach  his  feet  a measure. 

And  find  his  mouth  a rein ; 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 

And  I were  king  of  pain. 


Les  Noyades 

WHATEVER  a man  of  the  sons  of  men 

Shall  say  to  his  heart  of  the  lords  above, 
They  have  shown  man  verily,  once  and  again. 
Marvellous  mercies  and  infinite  love. 

In  the  wild  fifth  year  of  the  change  of  things. 
When  France  was  glorious  and  blood-red,  fair 
With  dust  of  battle  and  deaths  of  kings, 

A queen  of  men,  with  helmeted  hair. 

Carrier  came  down  to  the  Loire  and  slew, 

Till  all  the  ways  and  the  waves  waxed  red : 
Bound  and  drowned,  slaying  two  by  two. 

Maidens  and  young  men,  naked  and  wed. 


132 


Les  Noyades 

They  brought  on  a day  to  his  judgment-place 
One  rough  with  labour  and  red  with  fight, 

And  a lady  noble  by  name  and  face, 

Faultless,  a maiden,  wonderful,  white. 

She  knew  not,  being  for  shame’s  sake  blind, 

If  his  eyes  were  hot  on  her  face  hard  by. 

And  the  judge  bade  strip  and  ship  them,  and  bind 
Bosom  to  bosom,  to  drown  and  die. 

The  white  girl  winced  and  whitened;  but  he 
Caught  fire,  waxed  bright  as  a great  bright  flame 

Seen  with  thunder  far  out  on  the  sea. 

Laughed  hard  as  the  glad  blood  went  and  came. 

Twice  his  lips  quailed  with  delight,  then  said, 

I have  but  a word  to  you  all,  one  word ; 

Bear  with  me ; surely  I am  but  dead ; ” 

And  all  they  laughed  and  mocked  him  and  heard. 


133 


Les  Noyades 

Judge,  when  they  open  the  judgment-roll, 

I will  stand  upright  before  God  and  pray : 

^ Lord  God,  have  mercy  on  one  man’s  soul. 

For  his  mercy  was  great  upon  earth,  I say. 

^ Lord,  if  I loved  thee  — Lord,  if  I served  — 

If  these  who  darkened  thy  fair  Son’s  face 
I fought  with,  sparing  not  one,  nor  swerved 

A hand’s-breadth.  Lord,  in  the  perilous  place  — 

‘ I pray  thee  say  to  this  man,  O Lord, 

St^  thou  for  him  at  my  feet  on  a throne, 

I will  face  thy  wrath,  though  it  bite  as  a sword. 

And  my  soul  shall  burn  for  his  soul,  and  atone. 

' For,  Lord,  thou  knowest,  O God  most  wise. 

How  gracious  on  earth  were  his  deeds  toward  me. 
Shall  this  be  a small  thing  in  thine  eyes, 

That  is  greater  in  mine  than  the  whole  great  sea  ? ’ ” 


134 


Les  Noyades 

I have  loved  this  woman  my  whole  life  long, 

And  even  for  love’s  sake  when  have  I said 
‘ I love  you  ’ ? when  have  I done  you  wrong, 

‘‘  Living  ? but  now  I shall  have  you  dead. 

“ Yea,  now,  do  I bid  you  love  me,  love  ? 

Love  me  or  loathe,  we  are  one  not  twain. 

But  God  be  praised  in  his  heaven  above 
For  this  my  pleasure  and  that  my  pain ! 

For  never  a man,  being  mean  like  me, 

Shall  die  like  me  till  the  whole  world  dies. 

I shall  drown  with  her,  laughing  for  love ; and  she 
Mix  with  me,  touching  me,  lips  and  eyes. 

‘‘  Shall  she  not  know  me  and  see  me  all  through, — 
Me,  on  whose  heart  as  a worm  she  trod  ? 

You  have  given  me,  God  requite  it  you. 

What  man  yet  never  was  given  of  God.” 

I3S 


Les  Noyades 

0 sweet  one  love,  O my  life’s  delight, 

Dear,  though  the  days  have  divided  us, 

Lost  beyond  hope,  taken  far  out  of  sight. 

Not  twice  in  the  world  shall  the  gods  do  thus. 

Had  it  been  so  hard  for  my  love  ? but  I, 

Though  the  gods  gave  all  that  a god  can  give, 

1 had  chosen  rather  the  gift  to  die. 

Cease,  and  be  glad  above  all  that  live. 

For  the  Loire  would  have  driven  us  down  to  the  sea. 
And  the  sea  would  have  pitched  us  from  shoal  to 
shoal ; 

And  I should  have  held  you,  and  you  held  me. 

As  flesh  holds  flesh,  and  the  soul  the  soul. 

Could  I change  you,  help  you  to  love  me,  sweet. 

Could  I give  you  the  love  that  would  sweeten  death. 

We  should  yield,  go  down,  locked  hands  and  feet. 

Die,  drown  together,  and  breath  catch  breath ; 

136 


Les  Noyades 

But  you  would  have  felt  my  soul  in  a kiss, 
And  known  that  once  if  I loved  you  well; 
And  I would  have  given  my  soul  for  this 
To  burn  forever  in  burning  hell. 


137 


Rococo 


Take  hands  and  part  with  laughter ; 

Touch  lips  and  part  with  tears; 
Once  more  and  no  more  after, 

Whatever  comes  with  years. 

We  twain  shall  not  remeasure 
The  ways  that  left  us  twain  ; 

Nor  crush  the  lees  of  pleasure 
From  sanguine  grapes  of  pain. 

We  twain  once  well  in  sunder, 

What  will  the  mad  gods  do 
For  hate  with  me,  I wonder. 

Or  what  for  love  with  you } 

Forget  them  till  November, 

And  dream  there 's  April  yet ; 

138 


Rococo 


Forget  that  I remember, 

And  dream  that  I forget. 

Time  found  our  tired  love  sleeping, 
And  kissed  away  his  breath  ; 

But  what  should  we  do  weeping, 
Though  light  love  sleep  to  death  ? 

We  have  drained  his  lips  at  leisure. 
Till  there ’s  not  left  to  drain 

A single  sob  of  pleasure, 

A single  pulse  of  pain. 

Dream  that  the  lips  once  breathless 
Might  quicken  if  they  would ; 

Say  that  the  soul  is  deathless  ; 
Dream  that  the  gods  are  good ; 

Say  March  may  wed  September, 
And  time  divorce  regret ; 

But  not  that  you  remember. 

And  not  that  I forget. 


139 


Rococo 


We  have  heard  from  hidden  places 
What  love  scarce  lives  and  hears : 
We  have  seen  on  fervent  faces 
The  pallor  of  strange  tears  : 

We  have  trod  the  wine-vat’s  treasure, 
Whence,  ripe  to  steam  and  stain, 
Foams  round  the  feet  of  pleasure 
The  blood-red  must  of  pain. 

Remembrance  may  recover 
And  time  bring  back  to  time 
The  name  of  your  first  lover. 

The  ring  of  my  first  rhyme  ; 

But  rose-leaves  of  December 
The  frosts  of  June  shall  fret. 

The  day  that  you  remember. 

The  day  that  I forget. 

The  snake  that  hides  and  hisses 
In  heaven  we  twain  have  known ; 

140 


Rococo 


The  grief  of  cruel  kisses, 

The  joy  whose  mouth  makes  moan; 
The  pulse’s  pause  and  measure, 

Where  in  one  furtive  vein 
Throbs  through  the  heart  of  pleasure 
The  purpler  blood  of  pain. 

We  have  done  with  tears  and  treasons 
And  love  for  treason’s  sake ; 

Room  for  the  swift  new  seasons. 

The  years  that  burn  and  break. 
Dismantle  and  dismember 
Men’s  days  and  dreams,  Juliette  ; 
For  love  may  not  remember. 

But  time  will  not  forget. 

Life  treads  down  love  in  flying, 

Time  withers  him  at  root ; 

Bring  all  dead  things  and  dying. 

Reaped  sheaf  and  ruined  fruit, 

141 


Rococo 


Where,  crushed  by  three  days'  pressure, 
Our  three  days'  love  lies  slain  ; 

And  earlier  leaf  of  pleasure. 

And  latter  flower  of  pain. 

Breathe  close  upon  the  ashes. 

It  may  be  flame  will  leap ; 

Unclose  the  soft  close  lashes. 

Lift  up  the  lids,  and  weep. 

Light  love's  extinguished  ember, 

Let  one  tear  leave  it  wet 

For  one  that  you  remember 
And  ten  that  you  forget. 


142 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet ; 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 
In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams  ; 

I watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 

For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter. 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep; 

Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap : 


143 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

I am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  everything  but  sleep. 


Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour, 
And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour. 
Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer ; 
They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither ; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither. 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 


No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice. 
No  heather-flower  or  vine. 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies. 
Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 


144 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 


Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn, 

They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 
All  night  till  light  is  born ; 

And  like  a soul  belated, 

In  hell  and  heaven  unmated. 

By  cloud  and  mist  abated 
Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 


Though  one  were  strong  as  seven. 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell. 
Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven. 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 

1 45 


10 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes  ; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands ; 

Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love’s  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other. 

She  waits  for  all  men  born ; 

Forgets  the  earth  her  mother. 

The  life  of  fruits  and  corn ; 

146 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 


There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 
And  all  disastrous  things ; 

Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken. 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken^ 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 


We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow. 

And  joy  was  never  sure ; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow ; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
147 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living. 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free. 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  life  lives  forever ; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never ; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 


Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light : 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 

148 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal ; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


149 


THE  LARK  CLASSICS 

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V' 

I.  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM.  Translated  into 

English  Verse  by  Edward  Fitzgerald j comprising  the  first  and  fourth 
editions,  with  notes  j and  additional  poems  by  Justin  Huntley  McCar- 
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‘ Omar-cult’  throughout  the  United  States.” — Boston  Globe, 

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AND  Other  Poems.  150  pages.  Now  ready. 

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No  other  collection  of  Poems  contains  “ The  Vampire.” 

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V.  SWINBURNE.  Laus  Veneris,  and  Other  Poems,  being 
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VII.  MACK  AY,  ERIC.  Love  Letters  of  a Violinist. 
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OF  Proteus?  Printed  from  the  seventh  English  Edition. 
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ILD  FLOWERS  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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RUB  AIT  Jr  OF  OMAR  KHATTAM 


THE  ASTRONOMER  POET  OF  PERSIA 
Rendered  into  English  Verse  by  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

With  designs  by  Florence  Lundborg  ; containing  41  full-page 
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great  Persian  philosopher.  The  illustrations  are  all  in  line,  rich  in 
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XL  BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT.  Son- 
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